Love's a thousand desires.

Love like the olden golden days. There is no state of being in-between. It's pure and wanting of corrupted egos. Say it'll work, to see it working.

Each passing day, he saw her down the street. Such a typical sight. To watch an ordinary girl trail through the ordinary street. Love of the ordinary. It was simple and straightforward. He liked it that way. He made no effort to glorify its existence. To push it to the superlative. Because the superlative is unnatural. He liked himself that way. To watch her, write about her, think about her. That state of happiness gave him the power to conduct himself. It brought him no complexity. He knew she is his. She knew he is hers. They did not have to necessarily discuss it. This blinding faith was intimate to each of them. Faith, drunken to his countenance.

That's how I'd want it to be. Simple. Agreeable. It should have the power to settle the turbulence on other fronts. The power of fulfil desires, whatever form they choose to take. It should bring endless joy, each passing day. Should be divine.