I Love to Write

A menage of feathers on a cobblestone path. Slippery shoals of grey splashing on parchment.

The way we love, like trails of tears, an aftermath. Who will be faithful on this journey of lament?

To love or be loved is often equated with a crown. The heart is not to be crumpled and discarded.

In love, there is no 50 shades of letting down. The drum does not silence, or become the departed.

Search as you may, joy is not hidden in the woulds. A beat intertwines with a sacred rhythm.

Love is never forced or strained, but understood. A perfect pairing does not a threesome make.

Even the sun lives in a jealous sky. A cloud longs to be the circle of life.

Unconditional love is not a garden of goodbye. Two hearts become a field of gold, stalks of amazement.

A heart is never baited. A beat is never sated. It's voracious tongue waters for evermore.

I learned to love myself, despite my hunger. Together, we became the rhythm. We dance in fields of gold, Forevermore.

I dont live off scraps. His lips feed me. His tongue caresses my womb. I know, Love.