It's real, love. Very real.
It is a matter of surprise, then, that the definitions of love that yearn so much to breathe within me, are somehow lost in the inexpicability of every moment when it sweeps through me. I cannot tell her what love is, but sense it flowing right back at me in my immobility, for when she touches me, my body cannot move, my mind does not want to, and my heart has already skipped the shell and taken over. In that one moment, I become her, almost, and feel loved as if I was in love with myself.
And yet, the same thoughts fail me when she asks me, bright eyed and dazed quite as myself, what love is.
It' all her.
The world before I knew her? And the world now? Every inch of it looks the same, but feels different in the way that I now feel everything. Not in a way I've felt much anything prior; almost as if this is the first thing I've ever felt. For however unreal everything around me, all things contained through time and space, through memories and dreams, through night and day alike, were once just a tale, and now that she has emerged, it's all real.
As a child, I found amusement in dabbling with the trickery of cards and playful illusions dubbed as magic, but the excitement of it all was dampened by the childlike confusion of not knowing what most things were and why they acted the way they did. Growing up certainly didn't help much, because pain is a great teacher but it does not impart the wisdom to heal, or to be happy. It is perhaps the law of whatever governs nature, then, that she was meant to tell me everything with the silence that maybe once created this universe. And she did, and now I am content with magic around me, not the kind I can control or be vain of, but the kind that puts me at peace when I see a leaf fall, or a cloud pass over me, or anything in the world that ever happens, and know why. I no longer wonder.
It happens, most everything happens, to keep us together.