Trees.

Infatuation is the leaves. Surface level. Leaves come and go, in a patterned chaos; when they're green and lush it creates a beautiful picture painted time and time again. When the frost comes, a hopeful wish lingers in the frigid air, all but counting down the days before the next leaf buds. Leaves, just as Infatuation, go away after a while, but surely they will be back again someday, grown anew forgetting those left behind. Leaves and Infatuation are not entities that last through weathering and wear. They sure are pretty, though. Lovely, even. Sometimes this up and down, to and fro, temporary promise of charm and aesthetic pleasure is preferred. You can easily transport Infatuation, just as leaves fall and grow and are carried by the wind.

Adoration is the branches. This is merely a piece of Love, attached to Love, will forever be simply a veering off, further removed. This is not a vital piece of the tree, but it is a sign of growth and determination. Adoration, just as branches on a tree, grow from the base of something stronger, it makes connections and flirts with other branches. Though branches sway in the dance of gusts, and sometimes crack and buckle under pressure, Adoration in this way is also resilient, growing where the branches need mending, swinging back to its comfortable place. A tree can be a tree even with small branches, long branches, two, or 100. 

Love is the roots and Love is the trunk of the tree. A significant piece, a necessary component. Without these parts, though, a tree wouldn't be a tree. It would merely be a flower or a weed. 

Without everyone else.

it was a soft and ginger touch, one that might otherwise have been mistaken for a quick and brisk breeze, or brushing past someone on the train. The touch lingered, left a phantom of a touch behind, one that reappeared just before the warmth and calm of sleep took the place of anxious and fleeting thoughts. One time while sitting in class, the touch crept up, a spider with 100 legs.
The smell remained too. the smell was solid and tangible, it was familiar and sweet. The juicy smell, the strawberries on a summer evening smell, the first day of school after staying up all night choosing the perfect outfit smell. It lingered and danced, it waltzed and tangoed, and probably break-danced too, colliding and combating and wrestling all the hopeful smells, the desperate to be smelled smells, and the ones that tickled the nostrils, smells. The cologne, and the soap, and the dog's late-night walk across dirty streets and strangers who petted. The elegant and light smell, it whispered and sang, its hair trailing behind.
The taste was not good, admittedly. It was sweaty and raw, and mean. It shed black hairs onto the tongue, it flossed between the teeth, and even spilled out from beyond the lips. The taste was quick, though, never outstanding its visit or knocking too loudly. But the scratchy and grey taste was right and it was perfect and it is left merely for the mind to remember and the senses to forget.
The sounds screamed and shouted, they radiated and bounced, and tantrumed on the floor of the grocery store. Hearing with ears gives these sounds injustice- they were felt and swallowed and digested. The slippery sounds caressed and bled, and stained the walls and carpet too.
And the view was jagged and purple, it was on the ceiling and an odd, tangled mess of limbs and joints, and of perspiring skin and lucky lines. The view was an understatement, it reeked of envy and cursed and refused to listen to the pleas around it. The sights that the eyes drank quenched a thirst, wetted a parched throat, and the view from here filled a gap that wasn't previously there, and drowned near the end of the night.