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Yearners come in many forms. The quiet ones will brood in silence and long from a distance, carrying all their unrequited love in their eyes. The loud ones, the touchy ones, they tease and joke and bicker, carrying it in their hands, hoping it wears off.

I am my own home but you are the guest with a key and a standing invitation to come in whenever, to stay forever. I am my own home but there’s room in it for you and the table is always set for two.

‘You’re the worst,’ I say, with the kind of smile I only ever seem to wear around you. ‘But you love me anyway,’ you reply, with the confidence of someone who learned me well enough to translate what I say into what I feel.

This is a love story: I looked at you because I just couldn’t help myself; you were already looking back at me.

My favourite hobby? Making you blush. I could flirt or I could piss you off; both will have your cheeks turning my favourite shade of red.

One for a lover and one for a rival. One a confession of pretty thoughts and feelings, the other filled with creative threats and insults, sealed with a kiss of poison ivy. Mixed up upon delivery.

Real yearners know that hands are simply hearts reaching for what they want and can’t ask for

Pretty eyes, pretty lips, pretty moles dusted on your cheeks like wishes turned into kisses.

Stare a little longer, go on, it’s okay. It’s not obvious how badly you want to lay your fingers on every inch of skin your eyes have been touching. I promise.

Unfortunately, I am not immune to a single one of your charms. Unfortunately, you know it.

It sneaks up on you, the urge to learn someone the way you would a new language, long-buried history, the stars. The need to know how to squeeze a giggle out of them, how to relieve their shoulders of the weight they carry. You study them and you learn. This test, you won’t fail.

You’re annoying (endearingly so), possessive (adorably so), infuriating (charmingly so) and I’m the fool who fell for it (and I would do it again)

You don’t have to say it. In fact, you can even deny it. Love may not be on your tongue, but it’s in your eyes.

‘I think I’m hard to like,’ I confess, hoping you don’t hear the way my voice catches. ‘But you’re easy to love,’ you whisper against my skin, lips pressed to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder.

Don’t say ‘I would die for you,’ say you’d live, say you’d try. It’s harder to do and it’s selfish of me to ask but I wouldn’t want to live in a world without you in it anyway.

Every waist needs a belt (a pair of arms wrapped around it tight, squeezing just right) and every neck needs a necklace (a string of cherry red kisses left all over the place, a little reckless)

Cute date idea: I bring you here and offer you a sip of a special pomegranate tea I made just you. You’re sweet, so you drink it, even though you don’t love the taste. And just like that, you’re trapped in my garden for six months out of the year. You’re Hades.

No need to talk, I’m fluent in big bright eyes and pout language.

This kind of love leaves a stain, the permanent kind, a mark on the heart. Even if they erased every memory I have of us; if we crossed paths on the street I’d still smile at you without knowing why. I’d still feel it, the tug. I’d turn back and beg for a hug.

Imagine if a touch was all it took to get back a memory from a past life — you bump into someone at a grocery store and suddenly remember they were your best friend, 200 years ago. A truth or dare kiss sparks memories of a time when you promised to stay but left.