love is in the little things.

the way a couple would hold hands and smile softly—not minding the snow gently falling around them nor the cold harshly reminding them of their time limit—because it was enough for them, wasn't it? the warmth between the molecular spaces of their fingers entwined together.

the way he would wake up first and press a chaste kiss on her forehead. the way she would open her eyes and giggle after he leaves the room.

the way their eyes would sparkle when they catch the other looking at them.

the way their hands would subtly brush by each other and slowly intertwining as one, finger by finger.

the way he'd leave the horoscope page of the newspaper spread open on their coffee table with their signs both encircled in red. the way she'd leave a small bit of poetry right where he left the newspaper, letting him see through a little piece of her.

the way she'd lean her head on her shoulder as they both gazed at the stars. (even though they know that their own personal star was right beside them.)

the way he'd put his head on his lap as the other worked through their balances on the floor of their tiny apartment.

they way they'd carry the other to their bedroom, seeing as their significant other fell asleep on the couch (probably waiting for them to come home).

love may be a coup de foudre—a wild hurricane with passionate storms.

but love is also the earth—solid, steady,
home.