It,
I once believed,
Was a disease,
A contagious plague
And that everyone around me quickly
Fell victim.

It,
A syndrome to which I was
Immune,
Resilient,
Impervious.
But now I see.
It is a rarity,
Not just a symptom of feeling
But a way of being.

It
Is not affected by medicine.
An antibiotic dissipates
The blight that is infatuation.
But passion is temporary
With symptoms
Hugs,
Kisses,
Caresses,
That are yet signs of It.

It
Is instead fed by life,
Does not infect,
But cleans and washes anew
The few people on this earth
Blessed to have their life completely changed by It
Forever.

It
Is love.