There is a relationship while we are in love. But it is just a start, when there is more of ourself in it. No, when it is all for ourself; even what we do for the other is only because we cannot stop having all that we are getting out of it, for ourself.
It is much after that the for–ourself content in the relationship recedes to a faint, fading background. Even the relatedness reduces to being more incidental to the love aglow in heart, as is the frequent giving and occasional taking, normal between any two people who are in a relationship — of love.
I am speaking of living together in relationship through enough turbulent seasons, a lifetime of attempts to make the other understand and long nights of yearning to be understood. Yet, when eternity descends, we wake up purged of all such desires, all descriptors to how we may have related or may be relating from day to day, and all hope of things being different or becoming better.
A relationship of love is unchanging. Forever. It is as mystical, indescribable, ever present, and unstated, as love itself is. Subsumed in it, the relationship as it once was is no more. There is love unfathomed, but without a name, with just a trace of relatedness for the convenience of others.
There is a perennial undercurrent of joy in relation of love, no matter how it happens or appears at the surface.