Do I Love Her

The question ached ceaselessly just beneath the surface of his thoughts. Did he love her? These words were a splinter underneath the flesh of his consciousness. It was a gentle knocking at the door, a request. Did he answer? Did he know how?
Most people don't--and some never learn. In fact, most never learn, and sometimes he admitted this to himself, and it made him thrilled to feel the warm swelling of emotion in his chest when she would turn her head up to him in waking and open up her kind eyes. It filled him with wonder that he could be so alive. The way that she looked at him like he is something beautiful, not in a sense of flawlessness, but a sense of familiarity and acquiescence. It felt as if her form was meant to forever be beneath and between and entangled in his trembling, nervous arms.
And he wondered to himself how he ever managed to live before her, and tried to tell her in words far too clumsy and human to suit the mood, and she might have smiled at him or laughed but they are both on their own. There is no book by which one can read the other.
But they are happy together and as he asked her if she knew how one knows when they are in love she shook her head and silently told him they were both on the same page.
We are given one moment of reality and a virtual eternity in which to unfold it. Thus does he unfold his heart.