I've never known what love looked like, or felt like. I just believed that when love arrived, she would feel... right.
And love did arrive. Love had frizzy hair, and made sure I ate on time, but never chocolates. Love had kind eyes, and a fiery temper. Love, loved listening to me, and I loved telling her. Love spoke her okays softly, almost dreamlike like a winter fairy, with a fragility that only made me want to hold her tighter. Love found it surprising I understood her jokes. Love wrote poetry, and oh were they beautiful. And when love asked me, what broke me so badly, I knew, she was just as broken, in ways so different from mine, and but broken nonetheless.
Love worries. Too much. Love hates hospitals because she thinks they are depressing. Love cries when she thinks I don't notice. Love doesn't know how beautiful I think she is. Love is afraid, of feeling the way she does, of ruining me, even when it is definitely hurting her way more. Love thinks her demons won't be accepted, but she's learning I have the very same ones. Love isn't perfect, but she doesn't have to be. Love is here now, not always in my arms, but always in my heart. That's all that matters. That's all that ever will.