Love. It’s hard to contain it in a definition. What it’s not though, is a statement. A combination of words thrown together in empty shells of conversations. It’s organic. It grows. I don’t mean it grows in strength or intensity, but that it lives. It ages. It scars and wrinkles. In that growth may dwell moments of intense weakness, where a mere whisper may cause it to vanish altogether. And out of those weak moments, giant spirits of hope evolve. When you can’t fix things, but only know that in the morning, you will try again. You will simply try. And love … will continue to grow.
