What Love is There?

What Love is There? 

What love is there to be had, if not yours?

For I find no other more glorious than you. I have spoke with the moon, it too sides with my heart. It knows my sorrow of longing.

Yes, I have spoke with the sun as well. But only does it laugh, for it says the moon sighs with any sorrow. For it knows only the bleak and lonely. Even the stars find my adoring affection for you to be a distant chance. 

Fading as does their light through the eons of darkness. 

Can we not ignite what I fantasize to be soulfully sublime?

For even the skewed brow that sits upon your head, I find beautiful. Your laugh, though you find it obnoxious, I find it contagious. It lifts my heart as does heat in the cold lips of winter. Your intensity to produce success drives me with admiration.

You lace each moment that we are together, with enchantments. You spell bind my soul with each look, I am drawn to you like madness to the ill. You are a remedy to my empty space, the idle times my thoughts are drawn before I sleep. When I walk alone among empty streets and drink whiskey beneath this old cherry tree. 

Your eyes, though you find them dull, plain, stagnate as stone. I find them to be jewels of rarity. An anomaly of the physical, they are vivid with hues of spirited rapture. Bliss pours from them beneath the delicate kiss of the moon. When I look to them, my soul is swelled, intoxicated beneath your stare, as is a patient to anesthesia. 

I am fevered for your love, I fear I am sick with love. Cruel it is, for me to burden myself with the unrequited. But I am lost of any words to help my escape, nor do I wish to escape this cavity of yearning. Though it aches deeply, painful to speak of, I wish it to bleed.

I am a foolish man, hoping my wounds will invite your heart to mend mine. For I know nurturing is keen with you. Immature this be, I am hooked to your aroma, your taste. Many times do I savor you in my thoughts in the lulls of my mind. 

You are ripe with beauty, soul and flesh. You dangle from the branches of life like a ripened peach, swaying to the wind. Succulent in presentation and feel, waiting for the perfect tongue to relish your Being. To take you from the perils of the isolated and spring with you to the passion of breath.

I do not say these words lightly, nor do I strike them upon my page without luxury of thought. I am meticulous in my omission of love.  

What love is there to be had, if not yours? 
Have you omitted your love or do you hide it in fear? 

Heart capturing stories in, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words.

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