It’s not entirely different from taking a bite of dark chocolate, sweet enough to entice the pallet, bitter enough to stir the senses.
It’s not exactly unlike a sip of red wine, intoxicating, awakening, and a little bit wild.
The feeling of love.
Tonight on the way home, my married carpool-mates each recounted their first date stories with their spouses. And have you ever been with someone while they talked about the one their heart loves? Heard the sweeping emotions, seen the sheen in their eyes as they recall the moment they knew? Have you?
What I find particularly ironic and beautiful is that, though a single girl more than willing to be found by prince charming (and in the midst of a lot of sir not-so-charmings;), these stories don’t ever make me jealous or bitter,
i came home on a second-hand-high of falling in love. Madly in love. Beautifully, assuredly, all-consumingly.
May I confess, once again, that I believe in this kind of love? I believe in the beauty and passion and magic and extra-awful-painful-wrenching-there-are-not-enough-adjectives-for-it L.O.V.E. And as I’ve come to realize, love’s the kind of thing, it ought to be everything or it ought to be nothing. Who has time to be bored? Who has time to half-care? What use is energy SPENT on infatuation rather than invested in love? Not this girl. What I do have time for, though, is to relish and ponder and delight in the love stories weaved all around me, the little examples of the great Lover and his creative, beautiful work.
and here, via pinterest, is another way someone says it: