How fickle is the word love.
That word can be murmured, screamed and written as easily as the first line of this poem.
Is love obsolete, or is that word unable to express the grandeur of this emotion.
As my body over heats and my chest explodes within, it becomes clear.
Love is not enough.
It is too simplistic for that dark creature that lives in an attractive misty material.
Rose quarts, ruby, raw amber.
Amber as old as time, buried for years,  deserted and left to tarnish and become cold.
Given a hand to hold its rough body and smooth its uneven and faded exterior, this can reveal missing pieces of time and beauty that renders one breathless.
You are my anber