Love isn’t temptation, not exactly, no.
Imagine the mountains: the white peak,
The gentle slopes and perhaps on a good day,
The sun behind, with its watchful gaze.
And at its foothills, a beautiful garden,
Filled with greenery and kind fauna—
The air warm, and not too moist.
I don’t think it’s admiration either.
There’s the man, with his sculpted body,
With his golden hair (or was it black?),
But either way with a winning complexion on his face.
Or — or the paper you read,
Written by an old friend, and you were left weeping.
What love is, the chemicals don’t quite tell the story.
The words fail and dissolve, slipping into oblivion.
The rhymes do not do justice,
The metaphors cannot capture the fleeting essence.
Wild like the wind,
Falling like rain,
Causing joy and pain.
No, no, no, no.
That cannot do.
It brings the unspeakable, barely expressible.
Pen to paper is no eye to eye, no hand to hand, no lip to lip.
The whispers are convincing, coaxing.
Fight or flight, seized up….
I shall say to you, “ - - - - - - ”
Shhh….listen to the breaths.
Feel the expansion of the diaphragm.
Close your eyes.
And then, maybe, something more.
Perhaps,
Something to do what words cannot.
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