I
often speak of love; where love is described; but what for love? It moves a
boulder, somewhere a psyche, a subtle suggestion; which morphs into a
mountain—afraid to say, “Love”; or more enlove—to say, “Love”—racing through
emotions. Oh the boundaries of love; the turbulence of love; to retreat for
love. That’s a secret note; to see love spin, and trek patiently; where love
evolves, to know for want, to realize nuances; for love is brutal ecstasy, shrouded
in vessels, to exhaust but a frame. “I love you through promise.” “I love you
through actions.” This is the meaning of, “I love you.” Love endures; to shower vagueness, where
such is detested. “Tell me now,” we
utter; somewhat confused, to share a cup of coffee. Most want perfection: a giving love; a
blind love; a love without boundaries.
It’s quite romantic, and it lives in degrees, to love beyond
perspective—but something’s lost, where something’s gained, a delicate
tradeoff. Are we there: gone and
crazy, as intimate as chimps, to pardon hurts for love? Do we give—that very thing—in which we
crave? If so; than this is love: a
different frequency, and all consuming, to wrestle for love. I stand a bit jealous for love; enlove
with an ideal, which colors love; for love is a vehicle, to require fluids, to
charge for engines; and love is kindness, a showered compassion, a focused
attentiveness, where such is unmonitored; and love is debate, honest and pure,
where love is accounted for; in which for closeness, a richer us, to invest for
years. We learn of love, even spatial
love, to see an individual; where love is frustration, a turn of currents, a
shift in personalities; where the old and new alternate.
