They Love

It’s more amazing to love, drenched in mystery, receiving

love. Fingers are motion, reaching love, massaging shoulders.

I admire such a love, where a symphony is anguish, for

they must depart, longing for tomorrow. Hold her snugly,

nibble ears, vowing that very moment. Such enchantment,

giving a pedicure, wiggling a pinky toe. We love a soft voice,

ever firm during battle. It’s the bondage of amore, climbing

through mazes, dancing a synaptic gap. I admire such a

love, where illumination bends a light, while skipping rocks.

They’re train to train, and city to city, ever to travel. It’s

mystic in such a sense, unable to claim love, but loving.

Such an experience, defined in grunts and moans, a prophetic

love. They sanctify passions, lounging house to house,

cooking gourmet meals. Love is first a shadow, disguised in

gestures, ever searching to become vocal. He speaks while

looking down, and she lifts his chin, noun to verb, and verb

to noun. It’s then uttered, “I love you.” It’s then felt, “I love you.”