Love

Too often professed, I do not know if there is a universal definition for this word, nor if those who claim to love know what characterizes being in love, but I do think - when I find myself constantly yearning to be in his company, and to want to talk, just talk, to him; when I want to tell him every little detail of my boring, mundane day, and to listen, and truly enjoy listening to the accounts of every small, insignificant events of his day; when I delight in his nearness, the very sight, the very sound, the very smell of him; when I crave nothing more than to share his thoughts, his dreams, his aspirations, and to share mine with him; when I feel my troubles would melt away when he is with me, and I would never be alone even if the whole world turned against me; when I find myself indulged in observing his fingers, his hands, his every feature, and finding the imperfection intoxicating, and the little flaws endearing; when I simply couldn't see why he isn't the most brilliant, talented person I know; when I find myself letting out involuntary giggles thinking of little things such as the way he writes, or eats, or yawns, or frowns, all the little gestures; when I could cast all my burdens and worries aside, go to sleep, and know that when I woke, he would still be there, and brave all with me, never to forsake me - then, I do know, I am in love.