If it were about the how I would 'nt short of words. I would be no shine on Elizabeth Browning though. But that's not what I'm wondering about. But if I were to be asked by you "Why do you love me?" or if I sit down to think, "Why do I love you?" words, thoughts, feelings escape me. How do I say... how do I start putting it in words. Your words, your face, your presence... it feeds my soul. Incredible joy and incredible sadness, glowing admiration and extreme jealousy, hope and despair both equally exhilarating and consuming. How does the parched desert feel when raindrops fall on it? How does the voyager feel when he sees land for the first time in months? How does the scientist feel when he unravels the mystery in his lab? How do trees feel before being struck down by lightning? The antelope before a lioness clamps down on his throat? Knowing someone who was by your side all along suddenly doesnt exist in this world? All this and more... I feel. Is it all you and only you? The cause for all this? However much I would like to believe that, I know I can't discount the presence of what created you- me. If you are perfection, the realisation of God, then I am the ugliness that marrs it. The Devil that sullies it. You are the pristine white, I am the blinding black. Because that's how nature works...A thing of exceptional brilliance immediately attracts a thing of exceptional devilry to attach to it. If my mind realises the perfection in you, my heart rushes to spoil that perfection, ruin it, damn it. I want to wish it away.... but my mind cant let go. And there I exist in the midst of all this- unable to let go and unable hold on either. Until I separate my mind from my heart... until then, I'll always wonder, Why do I love thee?