To write on love is a vexing task,
What form is apt, one might ask?
A dissertation upon that bittersweet curse,
Codified in an asymmetric verse,
Always poetry,
Never prose.
A fleeting glance to catch the eye,
A smile to make one feel alive,
Words heard on a rainy night,
Letters that cause thoughts to take flight,
Never opened,
Never spoken.
A fleeting touch to the hand,
Makes you fly away to a fantasy land,
A place where thoughts can meet,
A warm rug for tired feet,
Never stopping,
Forever walking.
To the rhythm of the universe,
Nothing less than a miracle,
Two hearts beat in concentric circles,
Seeking out their centre point,
Never meeting,
Ever beating.
What leads up to that stolen kiss?
Distances that separate or bridges that bind?
A beating heart and a mind that yearns,
A seismic shift in the world one knows,
Never answered,
Always untold.
