Tonight has left me with so many new memories to cherish for the rest of my life.

All the different scents: the warm, homely car air; the smoky cafe; the fresh, clear night; the smell of the woods, solely lit by the moon... but most of all the so familiar but yet so new, calming, captivating, special personal odour of the most worthy person I know.

The long awaited ability to mutually communicate and the confirmation of the ever believed in, equally levelled underlying understanding or (potential) bond. The wholly worshipped, varied verbal topics filled with profundity with such unique originality.

And of course, the memories of the physical impressions, literally impressions. The gentle, semi-accidental brush of the hand against the back during walks; the careful movement to reach for a hand; the soft, warm lips lovingly pressed on a hand; the warm, shapely, strong neck tucked underneath a determined grip; the precious, beautiful fingers tangling themselves in [my] hair, gathering the twines together neatly; the mischievous, meaningful kiss on the cheek, the tip of a cold, loved nose along with it; tight strong holds and the comforting caresses; the daring, loving, securing hand on the knee; the forbidden, sudden kiss in anguish...

I know once more what it feels like to love, and to be loved in return. I realise how dishonestly I've been cheating myself in the past, making myself and the people around me believe that I've loved others in between. It's easy to consider sheer cheap affection as real love, but it is impossible to mistake real love for cheap affection. Did I use the right words?

I remember coming across the most moving description of love whilst reading someone's diary some time ago. The writer explained how she could just sit on the settee, next to her partner as he stroked her hair, and simply cry for hours on end, purely because her love for him was so great, so vast, so deep. And that's exactly how I feel.

I do not know what to do with all this love inside me, I do not know where to leave it or how to let it out: there is just too much of it and every time I experience another perceptional sensation, be it a perpetually pleasant smell, a feel of a touch, a firing line of a glance or a watchful observation, I am overwhelmed by the enchanting moment and more love just piles on top of what was already excessively present.

There are so many incidents of which the mere thoughts even melt my heart, make my stable centre of gravity drop twelve feet in an instant, gift me with the desire to run up to [him] and embrace [him] with all my mental might, holding on strongly too stubborn to ever let go. I wish I had. I wish I would have been allowed to. Because then, I would have.

And until, if ever, I'm entitled to do as my impulses steer me to, I shall be shamelessly volunteering my worded feelings where they self-evidently are permitted to go instead of admitting to them personally: my diary. My online, unlocked diary, containing a great deal (but certainly not all) of me, the me I would give entirely anyway, if permissible.
Till death do us part.

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I feel so