I find that loving someone is hard. Keeping them happy is harder. The idea of romance can be downright superfluous. The concept of happy-ending is too commercialised.
Like you said, happiness is over-rated.
But talking to you is easy. Having you in my life feels natural. Whatever emotion and nonsense you throw at me is nothing that I could not handle.
Nothing that I did not look forward to.
To put it plainly, we are enthusiastic about each other. A simple bond that we established over a period of time. Separation does not exist in our world.
Love does not necessarily means kisses, sex and other physical intimacy 24-7. Though I clearly validate and vouch for that particular perspective. Love sometimes means hard work, being around, and not giving up on each other in the darkest hour.
Like you said, especially when most needed.
Love is about hope. About giving you one when I was not sure about it myself. Love is about respecting your stacks of female magazines taking space on my coffee table. Love is about replenishing the thinly-pressed and all-squeezed out your favourite minty toothpaste so that you do not have to waste time to get it at the nearby supermarket after office hours, and come home directly to me instead. Love is about keeping my mouth quiet when you feel like talking and letting off some steam. And when you asked about your newly-found wrinkle to me, whether it makes you less desirable than before. Love is about me shaking my head to these questions just so you do not have to worry about how I feel.
Love is sometimes when I refrained from punching your arsehole friend when he told you that you are the vision he gets when he was high. Love is sometimes about mastering the ability to drive at high speed by maneuvering the steering wheel with one hand only and the other holding yours intact.
Love is putting up with the noises that your sewing machine made early morning sometimes.
Love is kissing your lips after you had your coffee which I simply could not stand.
I think to me love is driving home to you crossing hundred kilometres of distance although I could afford a lavish accommodation for a rest after tiring business trips, just so that I got to pull you close to my chest in your sleep when I reached our bed tired and smelly. Love is forcing myself to take a shower at those hours absent-minded sometimes because you would not let me near you all smelly and sweaty.
Love is paying attention as you go on at length explaining details of fashion trends and trying hard to appear interested . Letting you win the arguments. Acknowledging that it is completely not necessary to get even. But love also means you letting me make mistakes and get irrational on simplest things. And not make an issue out of it when I find it hard to apologise.
Love is my heart broken when you claimed that this mess was completely your doing. teary-eyed and all defensive, you would not let me near. Refusing to listen to my reasoning. To my soothing words. Love is my world shattered when you refused to let me in because you did not think you are worthy.
I could go on forever on what I think love may actually be. But it would be like a blind man trying to describe what an elephant looks like. Or colour red or blue looks like. Or any colour for that fact.
To you, love is simply just us. Knowing.
We are both dramatic people. You are the drama. I am the applause. But deep inside we both know it runs deeper than this. What we have was beyond what we could define.
As long as we have each other, we will be alright.
Love is you not putting a leash on me. Letting me come and go in your life, making a mess, and coming back when conscience hit me. Despite you once told me when we first found each other that you hope I would never leave, I kept breaking our youthful hope and promise because I could not bear the thought of being contained.
Love is about growing up. And putting an end to that.