“Love,” is just a word,
Little meaning lies beneath,
But an “L,” said with the tongue,
And a “V,” said with the teeth.
Instead, say that she’s a painting,
Full of colors, still unknown,
Draped softly on your skin,
In your heart and through your bones.
Say that she’s a cloud,
Close to touch, and yet, so far,
Her mind is bathed in etchings,
From nights dreaming with the stars.
She’s the moon across a black sky,
Small but shone so bright,
Her reflection cast, but lightly,
With admiration, in your eyes.
She’s a snowflake in the winter,
Not another is alike,
And a dark field in the summer,
Lit up by fireflies.
She’s the eye inside the storm,
All around you is laid waste,
Only she can still the currents,
That you, yourself, have made.
She’s the echo of a porch swing,
Her head upon your chest,
Before her was all right,
But she and your heart are now the left.
She’s a poem left unwritten,
On a blank and crumpled page,
An indescribable perfection,
That leaves your paper still unchanged.
See, love should be expressed,
Spilt in art or dust to dust,
To speak love with mediocrity,
Is to nurture it with rust.