Giving it a name somehow cheapens it.

So much depends upon
Heated breaths and whispered laughs,
Hearts aching—turning in chest caverns
And ever-expanding lungs,
Drinking in cold air that sticks to dry tongues.
The heart has another pattern
In simple stutters and phrases,
Stopping short and beating furiously
To the tick of a clock,
Softly murmuring the contentment
Trapped in      one      persona.
It s t r e t c h e s out in the soul,
Molding itself to the beholder,
Yawning and s l o w and steady,
And we wrap this up
In pretty packages topped with bows,
Strings mangled and fingers cut,
Trembling with anticipation,
And we call it love.

The End

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