Love exists in forms that diminish with the touch of reality
and disintegrate into memories:
I would be a liar if I were
to accept this as the whole truth,
for love is volatile, a liquid shapeshifter.
It molds into the shape and existence of
the thing
that is being loved.

There is love that passes through generations,
a mere candlelight, each person a candle,
their flame bewitching others
and enlightening them with a delicate radiance.
This flame is eternal only if one is willing to share
the warmth across future generations.

There is love that passes through windows of the soul
as a simple breeze;
whether harsh, soft, or in the form of a tornado,
it manages to brush upon skin,
and never constant, nor still,
it pierces through the heart with wind,
leaving only debris.

There is love that passes through the closest and purest veins
embedded within hearts,
embroidered in societies and personalities.
This is love that is Truth,
greater than the salted night sky
more vast than the knee-deep river,
origin of itself.

My forehead touches the first ray of sunlight
after the subtle diminishing fog in the morning,
fingertips reaching for everything
black holed pupils recording and absorbing.
I hear the caged soul yearning
This,
This is love,
living in the presence of the Beloved.

Works Cited

"Charles Bukowski on What Love Is." Brain Pickings. January 30, 2012. Accessed December 25, 2015. https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/01/30/charles-bukowski-on-love/.