His hands were the one I thought ruled the world.
His eyes were the ones I thought saw it all.
His heart was the heart that won every war
And passion was his only -weapon - used.

His voice was the one I heard at night.
His warmth was the warmth that spread through my body and
Showed me
What love really
felt like.

What love really felt like?
I asked all the time.  
And his eyes were the ones that
Answered.
And his hands were the ones that
Made it
really
For me.  

That’s what it seemed to be

You see,
For me,
He was all I’d need.

For me, he was the only thing my eyes would
See.

For me,
his hands were enough
And his warmth was my coat
And his arms were my home
And his love was the boat
That carried
Me,
to shore.

And for me…
It was only for me.

Because for him,
I wasn’t enough.
And his warmth was just warmth,
It was never true love.
But then again,
How can I say what true love is,
Because maybe
it was
to him.

Because maybe love is the
Heart of more than one
Woman.
Maybe love is the
Passion of more than one
Lover.
Maybe love was never what I had
Thought
And love
Was only wrong
To me.

But to me,
That’s not love.

And to me,
That’s not caring.

And to me,
That is,
Nothing more than an –
Insecure man to afraid to,
Curl his body around mine to,
Pose the question  
As he turns his body
Into that doubtful
Question mark
That leaves him open to pain.

To me,
That
Is love.

Curling yourself around the heart
you want,
Around the one that
You choose
To have you
In your most
Vulnerable state
And to see you, as you
Ask the hardest question
Because,
What
Is
love?