love is…

that beautiful,
beautiful thing
that is love,
i’ll tell you what love is,
in case you never felt it
(which is highly unlikely).
love is…
love is the first and (hopefully)
the final draft,
a poem with accented/unaccented,
a scansion that perfectly
fits into the iambic pentameter
yet, there’s always one line
which sorts of crashes it
only to get restored in another stanza.
love is…
when you lay in bed and feed each other
apples or noodles or aubergines.
love is losing yourself
in physical and mystical —
a dance, perhaps,
alchemistical, atheistical,
pagan,
fire blossoming like marigolds,
cancer spreading/absorbing
the cells of your soul.
love is…
unanswered questions
and talk, lots of talk
until there’s nothing
to be said or done,
and silence perpetuates
the space, but both of you
are there — enjoying
the peace and quiet.
love is…
when you trust but know
that she’ll come back,
because that’s what she does —
a cat —
she just comes back.
love is when you listen,
listen closely — click clack —
the sound of high heels,
not just any heels or any sound,
it’s she, her steps,
the rustle of her summer dress,
the crackling fire
of lovemaking past midnight
or early morning.
love is…
the sounds of birds
chirping outside your room
love is…
flickering lights
and shadows,
you and me,
prose but also — poetry,
meadows — full of dazzling white
and green and gold.
love is…
you and me,
a story left unfolding —
fire and ice.