Do I love you? Do I even know what that allusive thing is called love? By what standard do I measure it? By what value do I judge it? Have I ever known it, felt it, given it? 

Yea, I thought I had; but, it did not return in kind. If it is pain, then I have felt it. If it is loneliness, I have been there. Yes, if it is rejection, sadness and grief: why, I have loved and been loved.

Still, if it is all those things dictating love, then I must not love you: for I feel none of those painful emotions. Pray, what is it? When first I saw you and my senses awakened, your smile leaving me weak, your laughter filling me with an inexplicable joy: I wondered in awe of you. Your touch, innocent though it was, left me trembling: filled with inspiration, desire. 

Is it that churning in my stomach, an overwhelming tightness in my heart, tingling in my muscles, and a warm glow that spreads over my body: when I have only to think of you, see you in my mind's eye? Is it this anxious feeling, eager because I do not know if it is one-sided? 

There is only one ruler by which I can determine the allusive; only one standard by which I can judge it to be love. If I feel the need to give all I have, all I am, yet expect nothing in return: then, do I love? Someone once said, "Love tickles," and I am tickled; "Love is joy," and I am joyful, "Love is warm," and I am cozily warm and fuzzy.

I only can say: to see your smile, hear your laughter, fills me with a need to be your friend, your lover, your playmate; filled with a desire to do all that is within my power to do for you, to please you in every way. Yet, I am free to give you space to be who you are, freedom to come or go as you will; still, to be there when you want me to be or when you need me. Yes, even to stand in awe of you but see you as real, spiritual not human, without frailties and fears, immense in all your strengths: love you, though it might not be returned.

If this, then, is the measure of love: why, I love you. For all these things I do feel and have done since first we met and you turned my world inside out, tore down my walls of fear, opened my wounded heart, showed me the world's beauty, of love and of you: then I knew.

You strummed, ever so gently and without my knowing, the strings of my heart; and, suddenly every string was alive, perfect in rhythm and tone. It is magic! You are magic! And, I won't question it.

It is chemistry! And, it started first in the mind, then assaulted my senses as it exploded with sensuous profusion: permeating every part of my body, soul and spirit. A chemistry that, once ignited, never loses its intensity; rather, it builds in strength, never casual in its demeanor, creative in its ability to know anything is possible— if believed hard enough. I believe— I believe, I believe.

Now that my heart, soul and spirit have been set free, what is there for the future? I cannot foresee and fear yet holds me back from you: fear you want only that part of me which is temporary: the lover in me. I have so much more to give. I cannot give only part: for then it would not be love but merely lust. I would be wounded yet again.

So, shall I love you from afar and always be only your friend? For I have finally knocked and you have yet to open the door. Shall I knock again, or shall I turn away? I should turn away, for you know me not; yet, the child in me says, "Knock again, for he may not have heard." Still, the sensible, logical woman in me, the one born of pain and rejection, says, "He is not at home, you fool."

Have I been foolish, living in a fantasy? Perhaps. Then, were I not to express my deeper emotions, would it not burn at my soul? If we twain were to be one in spirit, how would you know? Or, I, for that matter?

To look upon this irrational feeling in me, in such a manner, is to take dialogue out of hiding; and, if it be cast aside— or accepted— so be it. At least, there be no further innuendoes, questions unanswered; and, you may think of me as you wish and in whatsoever light you may cast upon me. I will not change, only the dialogue will alter. 

If I cannot live in the real world, then let me love in my dreams.

Yes, if this be love, then I love you. How can that be, you might ask, in such a short span of time? I cannot answer, for what is time but the wink of an eye: for how long ago was the die cast, the destiny determined? Who can say? Not I, for I am not that ruler by which all things are measured for perfection and worthiness. Were I, then I would find myself imperfect, unworthy.

Still, if this be love, that it endured the test of time, distance, and absence, then I do love you. But, you might counter, I do not, could not possibly know you. And I say, by what measure of time must one pass in order that they may say they know another? I cannot say, for I have not the standard by which to value it. Have you?

Can you open your wounded heart and tell all that is there? Can you pass by the fear of pain and reveal hidden dialogue? To your fear, I can promise only that I will not be the bearer of yet another piercing blow, the death of a new and exciting life. I can promise only to love you uninhibited, undemanding.

If all this is not love, then I do not love you. Now all the barriers down, by what measure do I call it love? By what measure do you say it is not? There were those who knew of the reaction before first I met you; still others had the overwhelming sensation we belonged to one another; yet, even others who sensed a divine intervention oddly spanning time— so illogical.

What, then, is the answer? How can you or I ever know, save we take the time, distance being no barrier? Oh, you silly man! Of course, I know you. I have loved you all through the ages and will love you through eternity. 

This, then, is the measure of my love: without bounds, without demands, for I always have known you, always known you were there— somewhere. I had only to grow, heal; then, to find, sense and feel. My fate is sealed with you, my Lord and Saviour. Of course you love me. How could I ever have doubted?