The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.

...tenía los Seis Síntomas Mortales de un Hombre Enamorado:1. Incapacidad para pensar derecho.2. Una alarmante propensión a sonreír en los momentos más extraños.3. Pensamiento constante en el objeto de su deseo.4. Absolutamente ningún interés en otros miembros del sexo opuesto.5. Una sorprendente buena voluntad hacia el mundo en general.6. Excitación sexual perpetúa.

Sometimes you say things because they make you feel better. Sometimes you say that because it makes me feel better. “I love you” stays locked behind my teeth because there is no way saying it aloud will make you feel anything but worse. I don’t say it, because when you love someone, really love them, you don’t want anything you do to ever hurt them.

We look at each other without saying anything, both of us smiling like idiots. I heart is so full I can’t believe it can possibly still beat without bursting right in front of me. My desire for him is so fierce I’m afraid to stand, because I know my knees will be too weak to hold me up, but there’s more than that. This great and bursting thing inside me is love.