Do you know what love is?
What it feels like?
What it looks like?
What Love is?
I do. I don’t want to write about it.
Because it grips, holds, pulses breath through my very veins.
It’s too personal, emotional, real.
Yet it pours onto the page like honey from the spoon.
Slow. Calm. Sweet. Engulfing.
Leaving pause to wonder.
What is love?
Why would one what to write about it?
When it’s the breath of life.
I hear you sigh…that long winded breath you release when I am petulant.
So I write. About love. Universal. Unconditional. Breath of all breath. Love.
As it should be. Pure. Simple. Heartwrenchingly beautiful. Joyful. Painful.
Even when I don’t think there are more words for it. I write.
But I don’t want to write about love.
Yet I cannot stop.