To whisper from your heart, the thrums of a humming bird,
The truths that sing in your soul like a chorus, bristling with mesmerizing melodies,
Unfettered passions, unchecked, like a herd of stallions loose among lush green grasslands,
Would be madness, insanity, a foolish play performed by a foolish jester guised as an actor,
Yet is that not love?
It is, yet it isn't.
Love is a complicated mistress, complicated yet simple,
Complex but not in a mechanical sense,
Love is exactly what it means to be, and it finds each of us precisely when it means to, or never at all,
For love is like a lonely partner at a dance, alone yet surrounded,
It waits for each of us to find it, and join in the dance that we will revel in for the rest of our lives,
And if we miss it then it awaits for another who can match its rhythm, whether a little less than perfect, or more perfect than before,
We are beasts of burden bound to desire, and yet gods of passion,
All we can do is live, live and try to find the one, who's heart beats to the same rhythm as our own,
The one who can hear the song that sings in the depths of our soul,
And all we can do is, to do the same for them, to hear that song, and to nurture it like a flower,
Giving it all the love it deserves,
All we can do is whisper from our hearts, the thrums of a humming bird, the thrums of a song being sung like it will never be sung again,
Madness, yet sanity,
Complex yet simple,
That is love.