Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
    a moment.

Afraid to sleep,
we keep on working.
Afraid to sleep,
We meet the dawn
from either end.

When light comes,
its continuity calms us
and ancestors watch over us,
as we sleep in fits and starts.

Outside the kitchen door,
Señor Romero's own grapevine
says: "Buenos dias!", says
"Gracias a la vida!"

I know her intimately and not at all,
Her fragrance infiltrates, chases me,
A whiff off the tips of my fingers,
The smell of her is hunger,
It makes me wont to wolf and devour,
Her flush on the flat of my tongue,
Her angel whisper,
Our quiet choir a pleasure,
A harmony,
A crescendo until we seed and mute.
Between us,
Our damp swap,
A no man’s land,
A moist design,
The map of lust.
The art of love is always,
In its stains.

that probably won't answer or please anyone
that the brain in it's power it's chemical balance has
a mechanism to compel us to love whether we do
or not.
we often go wrong.
It has tiny endorphins and synapses firing  
to ensure the genetic material within the
balance of humanity is shared, therefore all
of us prosper with the increase in variability.
And blue eyes or green fair haired short or tall thin or chunky
all of us find or urge ourselves to believe
the ONE is our only match.