Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists. When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
When you love someone truly,
you don’t look for faults,
you don’t look for answers,
you don’t look for mistakes.
Instead, you fight the mistakes,
you accept the faults
and
overlook the excuses
