How hard it must be, for you to define,

A love for you, and yours of mine,

Slippery, how it slides between,

The pulses of lust, the least obscene

Of concepts holding love a slave,

To the corrupt ways we irrevocably cave,

Into hostility so quickly and send,

False tones of joy, predicting the end.

Love: a whisper, a scent in the air,

Without seeing, I know you are there,

Love is the spindle of pale light dancing,

Between the eyes of two souls glancing,

Into each other, I feel your spirit,

Listening carefully, I revel, and hear it.

Two souls swirling in a realm, so unknown,

Trapped in two bodies, in a concrete world alone.

Counting the beats, I sense your heart,

I step to your rhythm, I set it apart,

From any other strange set of beats,

And in my awe of rapture,

I know someday, our hearts will meet,

In some other dimension, in some greater entrapment.

Capture a sliver of this feeling; this is what defines love,

How it clings to my bones when I look up above,

And know that you are the only essence,

That completes mine and receives its grandeur presence.

Now can I say this with such confidence so candid?

That I am the one for you, and you for me?

Yes! For my soul will not depart empty-handed

Without its match, for then at least,

I can leave knowing, that I died with you, in peace.

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