Love is something we as writers have always struggled to put into words. In fact, it may be the only time a writer is not strong enough, words are not good enough to describe something that defies to be caught, that flutters like a butterfly in front of you, its wings covered with the morning dew's clear droplets, and when you come too close, the butterfly is already gone, leaving behind nothing but mist in the air, microscopic molecules of water that fracture the sun's light, rainbows that explode and then vanish before you have a chance to see them up close.
And so we try. We try to paint you a picture. To use the colours of your heart and the canvas of your mind, filling it with impossibilities of language.
Love is... the scent of stars after midnight on a cold winter's night.
Love is... the taste of an early spring morning's warmth on your lips.
Impossible pictures, but all of them true. As the butterfly flutters out of your range, and you know, in your heart and your soul you know it, that you will never find the right words, never catch them as the butterfly shows them to you, in those moments when you think you are close, so close that all it takes is to reach out and finally understand.
I know what love is. I wish I didn't.
Love is... to have her rest with her head against your shoulder as you watch her in the early morning hours, while the sun's light slowly seeps into the room and is caught in her hair underneath your fingertips. As you gently kiss it and hear her soft murmurs. And promise you will stand guard and to never let any demon disturb her dreams.