You don’t know what love is.
You really don’t.
Love is not when you observe her hair strands gliding across her face and how they caress her cheekbones.
Love is when you move her hair out of her face to let the rare curve of her lips set you free.
Love is not when her hips sway across the dance floor and you get defensive about the men staring at her.
Love is when those hips remind you of her beaming optimism and radiance.
Love is not when the intricacy of her palms makes you want to hold them forever.
Love is when the creases of her palms make you realize her agitation and her pain.
Love is not when you kiss her on bridges under the star-studded sky.
Love is when you hold her back on rainy days when the sky cries with her.
Love is not reveries of unquenchable lust.
Love is a promise of the soul, of endless epiphanies.