Can’t Be Love.

What the circle shape does for a wheel.
What the square shape means to a grain of table salt or to the base of a cube.
Still not enough.

The things you are, in a word, cannot be measured.

As cliché as that sounds, I mean that in a literal sense;
If linked and stretched out, the words in a book would not sum up in length to the distance you go for me.

To write a love story of you is not plausible.
What you hold dear for me is not love, it is beyond the elementary noun.

It is strength, and hope.
It is motivational and driven — that before went unfound.
It is passion. It’s magical and colorful. It’s art without restrictions.
It is lust without conviction of being gruesome.
It is full of life and if this feeling had legs it could walk to China and back in 10 steps.
It is dear and pure as a grapefruit is sour.
It is as bold and graphic as the New York Times.

This can’t be love. It must be bigger.

More than science’s attempt to define all meaning with words and numbers.
In theory, it is bigger than Alvin J. Fellows contribution to measurement of all things physical.
If moving, a mountain would be a foam-ball.
If sound, it’d be louder than good music. And deeper than the grand cannon.

It is clearly in you. The way you make ‘me’ all of you.
It goes without thought that I come first, and as much as I hate to be the bearer of all your effort, I love it.
You are for me; as selfish as that is. And I am for you as a mirror would mimic those words.

Without you, I am expired.

My bare existence is rotten.
I am not trusting or optimistic.
Without the sun, what is the moon? Without your light, my vision’s removed.
No air, or space to move. And sadly, no more plans for Peru.

Not a future or daydream I want to be a part of.
Count me absent and unaccounted for.

I should stop contemplating the worst possible scenario.

It is now, and that I’m thankful for.
Look at that, you’ve even made me grateful.

Thank you, K.


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