Love is a slow kiss goodnight.
It’s anticipation.
Love is flirting outrageously and still remembering that the person at your side is not obligated to do anything.
It’s respect.
Love is an imperfection in yourself not bothering you.
It’s acceptance.
Love is passing up an opportunity because the time isn’t right yet.
It’s patience.
Love is a back massage that starts above the hairline and ends around the insoles.
It’s exploration.
Love doesn’t not have to say, “Let’s make love”, because you know what the other person wants.
It’s understanding.
Love is being given an honest chance to say no when you thought you were committed.
It’s consideration.
Love is saying the perfect phrase to make a solemn embrace dissolve into giggles.
It’s humor.
Love is reviewing the damage to your living room and realizing personal effects are strewn in a clockwise pattern from the front door the to bedroom.
It’s abandonment.
Love is seeing what your love really looks like for the first time.
It’s truth.
Love is knowing what time it is and not caring.
It’s joy.
Love is seeing a new side of a person you thought you knew.
It’s renewal.
Love is telling a person if you have to leave, you will let them sleep, and being told they would rather be woken.
It’s tenderness.
Love is waking up to find the subject of the dream you were having asleep on your shoulder.
It’s where fantasy meets reality.
Love is being there to wake your lover slowly.
It’s sensuousness.
Love is two people only taking up a third of a queen-sized bed.
It’s closeness.
Love belatedly knows why you bothered to buy a queen-sized bed three years ago.
It’s practicality.
Love is opening your medicine cabinet finding your tube of toothpaste turned into a pretzel.
It’s adaptation.
Love knows you gave the extra set of keys to your apartment to the right person.
It’s trust.
Love is saying good-bye and knowing you will be back by mutual consent.
It’s faith.
Love is sitting at the window, looking out and remembering who you were with the night before.
It’s reflection.
Love is stories that will never be told.
It’s personal.
Myriad Hues 