If This is what would be described as Love,

Let me know that you see It.

Only, see not only roses and a glass of champagne, instead

Velvet-soft flickers of a name from time to time throughout the day,

Encased in unforeseen sights at the park, on the bus, at work, by you.

Perfect Love needs time to Itself, alone to see.

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the universe.

 

Readily hear the rushing sounds of Love, a brilliant song

Face the tumbling Music of not only a soft, sweet phrase

Embodying no one but you in its embrace,

Causing you to hear the rush of your breath, but instead

Tension swirling through the percussion of unmeant words

Backs turn to the dissonant melody, is there a Right or Wrong?

Let the mellow click of the door be heard

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the universe.

 

May you ever continue to smell Love and Its perfume.

I do not only speak of a purchased scent that special one wears

Since some fragrances are priceless.

Heed the musk of the fire as you see the faces of those you trust

And look back at a face Forgiven.

Needless are words as crisp, fresh scents of a flower

Dutifully given by your Forgiver, perhaps lover, perhaps friend, envelope you.

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the universe.

 

 

Very strong come the Feelings of touch that Love brings.

Ernest enough are just the draw of a hand, the linger of an embrace.

Reach together for the World as you collide as one,

Prickles of grass, the ebb and flow from the tide

Rare are truer Feelings than what the World gives.

Ever present, staying forever, even when others

Stay, leave, and stay again to be stronger with you, for perhaps you are their World.

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the universe.

 

Never may the value of taste be expressed in any other way

Tell your secrets, not only through lips melting into one,

Help support each other through the salt of tears, as will come,

Open to patience as bitterness may grade the flavor of honeyed promises

Practice finding a beautifully combined essence, as one can become too decaying.

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the universe.

 

Then breaks the mortal pattern as an undefined Phrase, perhaps Sense, comes to pass.

A Phrase that gives imperfect beings the ability to live, create, and leave a legacy.

Humming softly, nearly tangible in pure atmosphere, almost Godly.

Constant mystery to you, to them, to all.

Perhaps it is Loving Perfect Blemish and Ever Present Hope.

None can perfectly clarify, nor ever will, a presence that all shall accept together and always.

 

Even the mild need the senses of space, for one is not the Universe.