Dear One,
I don't have much time,
Just a random assortment of heartbeats,
But there's something I must tell you.

Love.

It's a noun.
It can be a thing.
Or a feeling.
A flush of the cheeks
Or a steady hand.
Or a quiet understanding.
But, one thing is true.
It's worth living for.
I promise.

Love.

It's a pronoun.
It can be a name.
You are "Love."
They are "Love."
Either way,  
Committed for life.
Desperate and Chaotic.
But, sometimes, it is the only clarity.

Love.

It's a verb.
It can be imperative.
I mean it as a plea.
Love something.
Someone.
Love something so much your heart hurts
With the enormity of it.
Love the sun. Love the stars.
Love the flaws. Love the blessings.
Let love consume you.
You won't regret it.
I promise.

Oh, Dear One,
I am old.
Even if I have thousands of days left
When my heart will still be beating.
I have loved, and
I am young, but I am already ancient.