It's 4 a.m. on a Wednesday morning and this face believes in love. Eyes wide open, with much to lose. Experience has taught her that it's quite easy to be independent, but extraordinarily difficult to be in love. Difficult, wondrously difficult, in recognizing the responsibility of holding another on the same plane as you hold yourself. But she doesn't forget that she can't force the simple to be hard.

This smile knows that love is seemingly the swiftest, but is the slowest of all growths. Perhaps she's read too much Twain (if there is such a thing), but perhaps just notes the words of observers past. Her notions of love spill out of the trillions of re-printed copies of history's most cherished authors, those whose works eventually deteriorated many years of arrogant walls and watchtowers. With her generally impenetrable exteriors broken down, kindness and understanding seep up from an often deliberately, hidden core.

Through those eyes, she knows that she was offered the world, right at her finger tips, but it meant nothing without other life. Though she will always be fascinated by the majesty of the universe through her eyes alone, without a human to ever tell and touch, she unknowingly would decrease that experience's value. A stark realization that other lives, many lives, gave her life purpose in the most beautiful way imaginable.

That smile, those eyes, her face believe in love.