You spring to mind when I'm brewing tea. What sort would you like? Would we spend hours staring into each other's eyes over our steaming mugs in front of the fireplace on frigid days?

I think of you in the shower. How I imagine you would caress my body the way the water does. How your wet hair would flop over, partially obscuring your eyes. How I would reach up to brush it back. How I would splash you. How you would kiss me. How a gentle peck would become a prolonged, deeply passionate affair. How I would feel your arousal stirring. How I would become carnivorous. How you would clasp my hips and slam me to the wall. How I would gasp. How you would wolfishly smile. How you would enter me fluidly. How our conjoined form would groan to simultaneous nirvana.

You invade my mind when I'm browsing through clothing at the stores. I consider what you would like and what you would like on me. The kinds of clothes that you'd approve of me wearing, the kinds I'd kill to see you in.

You are in all the cuts and crevices, in the monumental and the mundane.

If this isn't love, nothing is.