It's the way you keep focus through a laugh, anchoring your gaze in mine like an innocently selfish child who refuses to relinquish her staked spot at the start of Saturday morning cartoons, or it's how your compliments come from a place so guarded in your heart that their value transcends price and enters the realm of the sacrosanct, or it's the way your body changes when we talk, betraying the urgency of your desire and the depth of your sensuality, or it's where you lead our conversations--miles into the immediate moment, years into the distant future, which by playful wit feels just as immediate--or it's how the number of minutes we devote to each other feels insufficient as hours meander by and moments stack up like fortified Jenga towers amidst an army of reminiscent fingers, or it's the way we kiss like lovers separated by decades having been separated by the length of a shower, or it's how when I look at the sky I'm reminded of a picnic and how I expect--not hope but expect--as I gaze skyward to see your smile overshadow the clouds and your happiness outshine the sun; perhaps it's these things and perhaps it's everything that makes me realize the intensity of what I feel for you, but no matter what it is--of the mind, of the body, of the incontrovertible spirit--the fact remains that what I once understood as happiness cannot remain a benchmark for my current joy, and what I experience now--when it's you and me as against the world--is orders of magnitude stronger, nearly to the point of warranting a new kind--and all because of one remarkable difference, one actuality that cannot be approached in sensation by the merely possible, something, I realize, that I lacked from previous engagements of romantic love: love.