One cannot effectively love without words,
And pain is not permissible but in the absence of love,
So when cautioned against the love of a poet,
I must ask if you have tasted the bitterness of ink wells long run dry,
Felt the weight of lungs unable to expand to produce sweet parables of temporal immersion.

Every inch of land charted by arthritic hands,
Unable to pull wonder from what can only be systemic from a moment of pure ecstasy.

Yet,
In every action lies an unheard metre,
Energy captured in free verse,
As her name lie on pursed lips,
that caressed shaking thighs,
that bear different origins than the name they were bathed in,
Thighs that would know not the sound but the echo and presence of love,
When all the paper has been burned and the inkwells have all run dry,
Only the poet's tongue will trace the shape of forgotten words across lips and thighs alike.

The lonely will be lulled to sleep by the tales of galaxies that rest in their veins,
And the oceans that caress the corners of both eyes  and soul,
Long after the poet has retreated,
To build temples and worships other muses,
That sentiment is not gone.

The poet's love is neither temporary or fleeting,
But sporadic,
Making love to the moment in its entirety,
For there is nothing exclusive about a moment when written,
The deepest corners of compassion,
not so subtly displayed,
In strokes of tongue and hand,
Teased across the page in ******* and organic soliloquies.

The poet's love was never meant to be private,
nor painless,
Only permanent,
The wonders described never fading in the poet's absence,
Only continuing to ignite a flame that continues to burn.