Ripped Pages from A Bookshelf

Love.

Love, love, love.

There is a definition out there for the four-letter word love, but what's the point in a definition when everyone feels it differently? Why does the human race find one meaning for such a small word? But more importantly, why do we let it? Why do we let it tell us about the butterflies, the kiss, the intimacy, the connection? Why, for once, don't we let love speak its truth? After all, it has the lips to do exactly that.

Love is a choice. It's not an instinct or a bond, it's simply the act of waking up every morning and choosing the same soul over and over again. It's the idea of detangling your own twisted vines to give someone else your seeds. It's the art of picking your own heartstrings to make someone else's guitar. It's the thought of fixating on someone's language when all you can hear is their accent. Love is that choice, and love chose me to choose you.

Love is irreversible. This meaning once you've fallen in love, it's impossible to fall back out again. Almost like a memory. We can reminisce and experience deja vu but no matter how hard we try, the power of forgetting is not on our side. Even if you were fully convinced you'd purposely misplaced the memory, your brain will always know how to find its way home. Your fingerprints will forever recognise their touch like a piece of puzzle and your skin will still crave their touch like a plant being deprived of water. But most importantly, your soul will recognize theirs. It is just simply irreversible, and that has led me to know that I would recognize your soul in an entirely different life in different bodies.

Love is that second thought. The art of noticing. The way you know the exact colour of someone's hair down to the shade and the way it falls as your eyes trace down the side of their face. The way you could individually draw their eyebrows, each stroke of the charcoal a separate hair. The way you begin to find their eyes in places you seek comfort. The way you pinpoint every exact freckle scattered across their face. The way you notice their eyes light up when they see you. The way you notice their dimples come out from hiding once met with your presence. Your dimples are no longer "just" dimples. Your eyes, no longer "just" eyes. And your smile, no longer "just" a smile. I see you. And my second thought. You.

Love is bewildering. It makes no sense. It's like following a set destination just to end right back where you started. But it's the journey that counts. The journey in which your cheekbones begin to ache from the laughter etched on your face. The static electricity that travels through their veins and into yours with a touch. Your butterflies fluttering amongst a field of blooming wildflowers, their wings dancing in sync with the exhilaration of love's enchanting embrace. Your heart becomes a shooting star streaking through the constellation-filled night sky, each beat a prominent glow of light follows in its path. However, you're still rooted to the earth. The tangled vines creep through your mind, twisting and weaving their way into every waking thought, planting deep within your soul, as love's obsession entwines itself with your every movement. But to make up for all this, is love's natural drug. Euphoria. Flowing through your vessels like a pure spring, intoxicating your senses with the sweet aroma of love's own personal high. You look down at your hands, your palms are delicate petals glistening with the morning dew, a gentle reminder of the nervousness that love brings like a soft breeze on a summer's day.

You are cyclical. My start, my journey and my end.

You are my love.