People write novels,
Paper leaves soaked in heart-quenching words,
About the kind of love I have found,
Or rather, has found me.
Lonely middle-aged women flip through,
Divulge, memorize, immerse themselves in,
The love story of a life that he has created for me.
Have you ever woken up in the buzzing blackness of 3 AM,
Searching in the stretch of infinity between you and the empty pillow,
Feathers floating in your head, but heavy,
Looking for, hoping for
The cosmic "it" that's plastered with wet paint images,
The celestial amor?
I used to.
I would harvest the angst and void for the loudest clock strikes,
And only then would I examine the truth of my heart,
And it's lack.
He has filled this void, he overflows it with his constant love,
His little "I love you" that accompanies every nighttime kiss.
Is it possible to enjoy the winding midnight
That once gawked at my loneliness?
He makes me green and vibrant.
His love is the sustenance of all my dreams,
The shimmering sheen of all growth,
And for this, I love him.