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Love is matter.
The terrible, unstable kind, yes?
The wild, sweeping kind that rips every notion apart until only nothing remains. And you weep, your tears are diamonds.
Or perhaps the luminescent, sublime kind.
The soothing, balmy kind, that caresses every scar, contains tides until only stillness remains and your smiles are rainbows.
Ah, of glorious hurts and shimmering pools of blood. Of nightskies dark with longing and days bright with impudent hope.
Of quiet acceptance that every drop of blood and sweat is mine, is thine, is ours.
Of every kiss that proclaims the tongue and every ache that screams for a union.
Of shivering limbs that crave steadiness from firm but gentle arms, but alas! Love must steady itself in its own whirlpool of collapse.
Of looking for answers in a beloved's eyes and the stoking of yellow embers that burn beneath the lids all night.
Of finding yourself staring back, a splash of white in every black; wind chimes tinkle in solitude and hearts splinter in gratitude.
Of blue cowherds and song and milkmaids and dance.
Of a day that won't see dawn on the banks of a swollen river, forever in spate.
Love is so many things, yet I know only your face.
I love so many things about you but all I can do is look at your face, helplessly, hopelessly.