In the brokenness of your being,
When the wind holds you a second longer,
And the night speaks to you,
Telling tales of the dark,
You know you have known love.
Like a silent conversation,
Like comfort in the crowd.
Love is that teenage,
Love is that senile.
Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
But also the pebbles by the shore.
Love that is not the perfect letter,
But the hundred discarded drafts in the bin.
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
But the shared coyness when fingers graze.
Let love not be known by anxiety when falling out,
Let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with.
Let love be the last lap of your race,
Let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
Let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
Let love be the song you made your symphonies for.
And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
Regret the hesitance you took to,
Repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
Blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you.
Because love is to dive into the waves,
And to fly into the valleys.
It is not a step back,
It is a kiss later.
Because love my friend, is not lukewarm,
Love is intense.
Love is a poem in conflict,
A poem by the sea in fury.