This love was an answer,
a resolution in the blackest night,
a shrieking of delight,
a temperance of fear,
the death of disillusionment.

Indeed, love is many things.
It is a whisper of perfection,
beckoning the emotions to supernova,
to hold the reigns and throw them,
into the abyss of pleasure,
shouting into the void,
"Take my control!"
so that we languish in security,
sipping the knot of kinship.

Love is a smooth, soft, brush,
upon the lips, tickling away,
bruises of bitterness,
fortresses of fear,
agreements of anger,
lists of loss,
pits of pettiness;
Yes, yes, yes,
love is a cure.

It is injected into the heart,
of a soul reaching for purity,
a soul reaching for hope,
warmth, and good weather.

Love is that white sanded beach.
It awaits outside your window.
The gulls beckon, flying patterns,
across the shimmering sky.
Clouds form all your favorite shapes.
The water is warm,
"Come in," love says.

I walk that shore sometimes.
I write to you from that shore.
Walk with me.