What makes love real?

What makes love real, I wonder
Soliloques of words professed?
Unconditional acceptance of who and what we are, what we look like?
Farting under the covers in bed, laughing?

Is it staying long after the fun of new romance has left,
With trust innured into a warm glow of heart, assurance, knowledge of permanence?

I don’t know, I have wandered into a room that I do not know,
The lights have turned off, and I spread my hands out in the darkness,
Tentatively, and nervous I will stumble, fall and hurt myself
The groundless feeling of being alone, stands in moments of silence

There is no pain.
There is no warmth from a lover
But there is me.

I guess I must seek this unconditional acceptance of who and what I am. What I look like.
My faults and gem will be mine to own, without guilt and question.  So that I might share them with my lover someday.