On my lips she shared with me her secret
a secret that I chose to not forget.
For what is a kiss but a secret told,
An expression of love so deeply bold
So much can be said with that little kiss
In that moment you know if something’s amiss.
You see a lifetime with her by your side
Or you see someone else joining the ride.
So is it the nature of true love’s measure,
To reject all sorts of worldly pleasures?
To confess of love, were it there all along…
If so then material things did not belong.
No trinkets of matter can substantiate
Nor could they measure up to commiserate
With Love as defined. But what can define love?
Is the temperature of those lips enough?
Is it affection? Is it a fondness?
If so, then I disagree, with that pretense
Is it definable, if so let me know
And I will take my pen and drain it slow.
So what is true love, is it different for each
And should it become your weaver of speech
If we then become the spoken word
In adjectives drenched with ache and subtle verbs…
…in a love letter while holding that bleeding pen,
from the ink that courses through the veins again
Does love endure when the butterflies recede
And in such arms is that all the soul will need—
Spared from such jukebox backed belittlements
To the brushed arms of stranger predicaments
How easily this could have been my scene
a tragedy with someone else’s queen
But beneath me, you breathe and I inhale
And all those worldly pleasures are not my ails
As I try to give meaning and I fail
For true love has no measure, no boundary to scale.