My love is focused stares across a crowded room, extended fingertips, longing.
My love is inopportune places at inopportune times.
My love is counting down the minutes until work is over.
My love is picturing his clothes in a ball on my bedroom floor,
my love is his clothes on me.
My love is wanting to open Christmas presents early, but worth waiting for.
My love is drunken nights sobbing on the bathroom floor, men are allowed to rely on their women.
Sometimes my love is a pumpkin spice latte, seasonal.
My love is jumping off a plane and opening a parachute, jumping off a bridge and feeling the bungee chord; thrilling, seemingly dangerous but I'm always protected.
My love is falling down seven times, standing up eight.
My love is my steadfast faith in what I can't see.
My love is renovating a burnt down city. Finding beauty in ashy remains.
My love is 4 AM night terrors, soft whispers, fingers through my hair.
My love is lust wrapped in a pretty package.
My love is fire, whether it keeps me warm or destroys everything in its wake depends on the day.
My love is "**** that guy baby, he doesn't matter, you're not alone, I love you, you're beautiful." My love judges people he doesn't know so my wrists stay porcelain, not Crimson.
My love hates my music but listens anyway, hates my glasses but looks at me anyway, hates my singing but sings with me anyway.
My love is a bullfight on eggshells. We know nothing of subtlety.
My love is a diamond in the rough, he's the diamond, I'm the rough.
My love is ******* up everyday and wearing his patience thin.
My love is holding the same hand, kissing the same lips, seeing the same eyes every day and never getting bored.