Endless books, a million movies and a trillion thoughts have talked about, and fantastically failed in explaining love to us. It seems the mystery is insurmountable. In some patches of life love seems to be heartbreakingly close, but impalpable. And palpable, when it's far away. How sad of it! The utter demise of love's enigmatic shine is because we often fail to see it coming from faces/places/objects we intend it to. We don't just crave for a person or love individually; rather we want both. Together. We want love melting out of that person. "We stop caring about the ink, and start craving for the pen". It won't be injudicious to describe love as an "amoeba" that has no constant shape, but has all the infective abilities.