I've always known it to be true, that love was shackled and sentenced to death by monogamy, the wretched gavel-wielder.

The mind attaches "mine" to what you love.

All that comes to know you, fall victim to a double edged curse. One in which strikes them as it strike you, but there's nothing either can do.

I knew it was love when the idea of mine no longer lashed it's furious grips upon your godly vessel.

When you told me you loved me, in that moment, my knowledge of love was reborn. There was no longer love for her, or you, or him. It was just love in all its purity.

For every coffee I've let go cold, or every beer that racing thoughts have turned warm, another clue to the truth was unfolded.
The echo that barley reached my ear, it whispered "you are love"

I was made aware of my entrapped state, by adoring your freedom, and for the first time in my life, the ******* frost from my selfishness was warmed. Not by holding you close, but by watching you roam.

An agitated ego will strip love down to loathing, and like the sunrises you adore, you too will have to travel and see each sight, to be fulfilled and find your niche. Because spreading your presence, like the wings of the most lovely dove, can save even the most broken soul.

And I will finally feel joy, because I met love, and she was beautiful. Just like those overwritten novels promised. To trap you and scrutinize you like an item of interest would destroy the very essence that flicked on the light.

So in my arms, or passing over the tropic of Capricorn, I will rejoice. Because distance cannot destroy real love.

Until then, whether istening to you softly harmonizing to your favorite song, or feeling the energy eject from your pores as you watch the sun paint a mosaic just for you. I will die more and more.

But as we both **** ourselves for each other and a smile looking back at us, and a distraction from the rapture. We are love. And love will never cease.