[And so it starts.]

It is the kind of love that gives you hope, the kind that must be a fresh seed molding itself into the rich soil, unfurling its lush potential beneath the surface. It is the kind of love that hums with all that it could be, a love that could either blossom into a flower or a tree. It is a love that you do not yet know.

It is the kind of love that threads two hands with cold fingers together, laced up with aimlessly imperfect circles and amber-warm lips. It is the kind of love that presses skin to skin, cheek to cheek and nose to nose and mouth to mouth. It is the kind of love that sprawls on the wrong side of the bed, fitted together. It is a kind of scared love, with wide and uncertain eyes. It is a kind of love you hope is not too good to be true.

It is the kind of love that coaxes you to unshutter your heart again. It is the kind of love that you hope against hope to last, this one, please, because it is a love that you love more than he can imagine. It is the kind of love that softly brings you home after an exhausting day, the kind of love that you have tried and tried and tried to find.

It is the kind of love with potential to be that love, the love that you need. It is a shy kind of love. It is an undemanding love, a love that makes your fingers streak your drying heart into dripping words. It is a gentle love, shining against the dying light. It is a beautiful, gorgeous love.

It is a breathtaking love.

[It always is.]