i think we’re painting our own picture of love, using the only colours we know. an eclectic world drawn from multiple palettes. we take such pleasure in reinventing this wheel, choosing only what suits us. this quiet, free flow of affection. not borne of grand gestures, but a steady stream of little treasures, savoured as the declarations they are. the thousand small ways we hold each other. we spend our days joined not at the hip, but at the heart. our friends endlessly confounded by how happy we are - to remain in each other’s orbit without always walking the same path. not knowing this is how two introverted flowers bloom in the same bed. instead of counting pollen, there is an implicit trust that the carrying winds will balance, that we are building on solid ground. that love itself is the gilded path we walk.