It isn’t a recipe you can follow.
It isn’t a list of actions,
a choreographed dance.
Love is the wind through wind chimes,
the sunlight reflecting in eyes.
Love is the soft call of a morning bird,
cold feet and warm hands,
the aroma drifting from a bakery,
a hand on your back, tracing circles.

Love is a jagged stone,
once rough, now smooth.

I cannot explain love,
but I know it when I look in your eyes.