all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

2- George Harrison

As a sudden question popped in my head like a light bulb might appear above it in a cartoon, I paused the humming I'd been doing for the past 10 minutes.

Turning around briefly, I glanced back at the desk in the back of the room, seeing my husband still scribbling away at the yellowing scrap of paper like it was the most interesting thing in the world---and considering what a genius of a songwriter George was, there was no doubt lying within me that it probably would be precisely that in a few months' time.

Placing a bookmark hastily as I knew that the thought might very easily vaporize, I retucked the book I'd been devouring so religiously back in its rightful place in the mahogany shelf.

"Something's on your mind."

Nearly jumping a meter out of my skin, I veered away from the bookshelf to find him still grinning as he scratched some more into the paper, having not even looked up from his songwriting.

"How did you---"

"You stopped turning pages," he chuckled, finalizing whatever he had written to set down his ink pen, resting his chin on his calloused hands, cocking his head slightly to the side, "Penny for your thoughts."

It was tempting to gaze at him for hours on end, enamoured by his statuesque face; with the impossibly high cheekbones that contrasted with his huge, invasive albeit warm, cocoa eyes. But I knew, if I were to start admiring him, I would end up forgetting what I had to say in the blink of an eye.

I was already beginning to lose track of my thoughts.

Barefootedly approaching him, I sat down at his feet, straightening my back just enough so I was able to fold my arms on his knees and rest my head there, softly smiling at his kindly countenance.

Absentmindedly, in a way that I (somehow) knew he wasn't thinking much of it, his hand crept up to tenderly tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, which had previously been obstructing my view that seemed to be adorned with metaphoric red hearts.

"I've got a question," I smiled up at him, quite unable to help myself, "What is love?"

Scrunching his heavy eyebrows for a few seconds, he seemed to wrack his brain for an answer, before thoughtfully replying, "I don't think I can exactly pin it down to a certain definition," his eyes drifted for a moment, and he scratched his mustache briefly, "It's kind of like asking someone to describe a color."

I laughed a little in confusion, "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"Give it a try, try and describe the color red."

Try as I might, I couldn't describe it; fully aware that even if I miraculously managed to do so, he'd still form a different perception of the color in his head. 'My' red, strictly speaking, would be an entirely different shade of red than 'his' red.

"I don't think I can," I admitted with a non-committal shrug.

"Put it this way, love," he stressed on the 'o' in 'love' in his scouse accent, pronouncing it so adorably, "If I could describe love itself, then I would be reading its definition off a textbook," at that, George gestured to the stack of thick leather-bound textbooks on his desk, "Otherwise, it would mean that I myself don't understand it, and can only wrap my head around a superficial meaning of the concept itself. The literary meaning is far off from the spiritual and emotional one."

His slightly roughened fingers clasped my hand in his, pulling me up as he got off the chair, stuffing the song lyrics he'd previously been writing in his jeans' backpocket, wrapping one arm daintily around my waist and clutching me close to his side.

As I subconsciously leant into him, he gently pressed a slow kiss to the top of my hair, leaving my face a warm shade of the red I so struggled to describe, as though we'd just met and hadn't been together for almost a decade, "Let's just put it this way; that for now and forevermore, love is ours."

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