Love isn’t.

Love isn’t the roses, the chocolates and the gifts.Love isn’t the brief locking of eyes, neither is it texts that you send me in the middle of the night. It isn’t the wrapping of my arms around your neck, or my legs around your waist. It isn’t the intertwining of our lips, neither is it in the movement of my hips. It is not in the moans or heavy breaths.Love isn’t talking about the weather, after sex.

But love is the racing of your heart at my sight.It is your fixed gaze when I’m looking away.It is your ignorance towards the dark stain on your favourite bedsheet identical to the one on my panties. Love is your sleepless night that my frown earns. Love is allowing your walls to crash at my finger’s touch.Love is the rain that pours on your heart when I blush and love is…not me, not you, but us.