[ Love is Saturday afternoons spent in the library with his father, clambering into his lap and listening as he read from books he couldn’t quite understand yet.
Love is the crusts cut away from his sandwich by a nanny with kind eyes and a warm smile who let him climb into bed with her on nights when the voices woke him up.
Love is finding a little girl in the kitchen and you’re not alone.
Love is spending years and years with that same little girl at his side, years full of arguments and nights spent piled in one bed or on one sofa because they were one another’s sword and shield and anchor all at once.
Love is pulling a man from the water and telling him there’s good in him too, he’s felt it, and watching as he turns a satellite dish and raises a submarine.
Love is a bullet in his back and a coin through his head and you did this and I’m sorry, my friend.
Love is a hand pressed to his lips and broken promises and you should go with him, it’s what you want.
Love is the sharp smell of sulfur and a wisp of black smoke and broken, empty eyes shaded by a helmet. ]
Love is necessary.