It's how you press your lips on my forehead when we're both half-asleep as if assuring me that you're not going anywhere. Not until you have to. It's how I feel immensely safe when my head is pressed on your chest, close enough for me to hear the gentle drumming of your heartbeat.

It's the sound of clinking beer bottles when we're each telling the story of how our day went -- the moments we wished the other was there to witness, the things that made us ponder deeply, the rants, the joys, the tiny victories, the nuances; our shared thoughts; our flaws and imperfections; our minds coursing swiftly through a vast road without us noticing the change in gears. It's how we take each other's breath away when we laugh, so hard that we feel the little bursts of air spaces in our lungs.

It's when we see each other and realize that the image in my head -- one that I constantly think about during the day -- is nothing compared to what I'm seeing before my very eyes. It's the ordinary. And the extraordinary. It's how our hands find their way to meeting, interlocking, as if they have minds of their own.

It's how we make love. Oh, how we make love! It's the way you would hold me tight, telling me that everything will be alright. It's when I feel I'm about to lose my senses when I see your face filled with pleasure; with excitement; with comfort; with hunger; with contentment. It's how we lie on our backs after; frantically catching the breaths we thought we'd lose. It's that moment right after when we're lying beside each other, like two childhood friends lying on the grass after a day's worth of play.

It's when I look at you, and that silent prayer I say right before I close my eyes. And it's happiness, and all the good things filling every part of my being, every cell in my body; every fear I have knowing how my heart could shatter at any given time, every glimpse of a possible future, every truth -- and then I whisper those words just before you fall asleep.