Love. It's something nobody really talks about, love. A funny sort of thing, love. Everyone says so much about love, and yet nothing at all; the tales they spin with svelte fingers and romantic words and delicate lips give millions upon millions of words of love to us, sweet and sugary to make us understand, to help us grasp what it is. They fail at their job, of course. No one can truly grasp the concept of love until they've felt it, really, and no words can fully encompass the meaning of it. Perhaps that is one of love's many charms. To be able to feel, but not describe it. To comprehend, but to be unable to make others comprehend. Love is simple, they say. That isn't quite true. Love is complex, others counter. They would not be accurate, either. Love makes you complete. Love is only a distraction. Love is wise. Love is foolish. Love is none of those things, and yet all of those things. Why do we love others? For their aesthetic purpose? For the things they can do for us, for the gifts they can give us? How do we know if we love them, or just appreciate them for materialistic purposes? How does love feel? What if we already feel complete without love? What if we have already found everything we want in life? What if love, like many other aspects of life, just seems like a luxury that is not for us? What is love? Love is quiet. Love is little smiles, little touches. Love is the way he breathes or the sparkle in her eye. Love is how they hold hands, fingers interlocked and palms pressed together. Love is tucking their hair behind their ear and lingering for an eternity. Love is loud. Love is laughter, love is joy, love is celebrating birthdays or promotions or getting a new dog. Love is music sang in the shower or belted along with the car radio. Love is dancing in the kitchen at three in the morning and calling everything you do with them an adventure. Love is passion. Love is skin to skin contact. Love is locked gazes with fires burning behind them. Love is the way the air grows heavy and words are forgotten. Love is her sighs, love is his deep chuckle, love is their lips brushing soft, feather-light, on the other's skin. Love is patient, but love is scary. Love is the way they teach one another trust. Love is the way he raises his voice when he gets angry. Love is how they reconcile, opening their hearts and promising to do better. Love is the way she tries hard not to doubt him. Love is when their understanding makes them stronger. But most of all, love is different. Love is something she knew at first sight. Love is something he wanted since he was little. Love is something they did not know they wanted, but now cannot bear to live without. Love is the way she feels independent but the way he needs her in her life. Love is a part of your heart reserved. Love is that person who fills your chest in a way you didn't know was possible. Love is clear, love is foggy, love is new, old, amazing, terrifying, an absolutely mind-boggling whirlwind of destruction and creation and emotion - But don't take it from me. I'm not right, either. I'm just one more person that has felt the amazing wonders of love, giving yet another pathetic attempt to describe a feeling, a presence, an independent entity, the same way thousands of people have tried and failed to do. You just have to feel it for yourself.