Sometimes I find myself not believing in love. Like, what if it really is some made up thing perpetuated by adults too stubborn to let go of the fairy-tale they grew up with? It very well could be a lie; Santa Clause was. The Easter bunny was. Tooth Fairy, ends of rainbows, unicorns, dinosaurs. Love could be like that, something we grow out of once we finally grow up and grasp that something so supposedly profound, so unique and otherworldly and yet so very common can't possibly be more than a nice story.

I think all of that sometimes.

Then I look at you.

(And love and life are redeemed?)

Yes.
(Yes. Of course)
Yes. I want to be common. I want to share that drink that all the world thirsts for. And it's you.
(Me?)
It's you. You break me.
(Torture?)
No, no, it's good. It's a good way. Diminished doubt and childish hopes even into adulthood. It's fantastic. You. Are. Fantastic.