Love

The sun hides itself reflects its light on moon, makes it confident to show it's scars.

Perhaps this is called love, where you feel comfortable to shine brightly even with your scars.

The river travels miles, battles obstacles just to meet the sea.

Perhaps this is called love.

Clouds collect courage to hide the fiery sun not fearing the heat, just so it could meet the earth

Perhaps this is called love, for which you can fight this world alone.

Our eyes, so strange!

They cry together, smile together, without even seeing each other.

Perhaps this is called love.

Metaphors are so less, the world is devoid of idioms and phrase.

To restrict love in their sentence.

The pen runs down on ink and blank pages get filled.

Books after books, we see, plotting stories...love stories.

Even though it seems endless,

For more books are to be written and will be written.

For more words are to be discovered and will be discovered.

To put this one of the softest and at the same time complex feeling of living species in dictionary.

The paintings hanging on the wall, scenery in nature

They all tried to define love to restrict love in their paintings, in their views.

But "love" in itself is a word so lacking to describe this feeling.

Even the phrase "I love you" seems so incomplete.