I know of it. I have seen it, and tasted bits and pieces, chewed and swallowed what might be considered love.
Love is enclosed in a love letter, or consumed in a box of chocolates or a valentine poem. It has the scent of a spring bouquet and morning coffee, shared. It is imbibed with wine, or champagne, at special events. Or taken with veggie, or what have you, over company at a summer barbecue. It tastes salty at times, in tears and sweat, and sweet in joy.
Love is the family by the hospital bed; the dad in awe of his newborn. The womb that cradles her baby, the butterfly kisses and raspberries... From dawn to dusk to the late night hours spent over milk and cookies, and stories.
Love is a story. Of humanity. The good and broken parts.
Love is a seed held by tiny hands... Immense it grows when planted, and the elders sit by its tree. Seasons come and seasons go. Love grows.
Love is wisdom, both silent and loud. She walks her child and guides her through the night.
Love is a mystery. It evades systems and ignores time. It holds and warms; it quenches our thirst for life. Like water, like air—it feeds life—it is life. For without love, life is but mere shadow.
Love is a color—all the colors of the rainbow, and the grays in between... It is the silver in the lining... Our hopes and dreams and well wishes for one another. The rain showers. It is the dews that glisten and the leaves that autumn christens. The wonder bestowed by a winter snowflake.
Love is a doctor that takes away the poison... The apple everyday. The tight embrace and soft whispers. Your silent words and knowing smile. The time we held each other and the stars illuminated the sky. The moonlight when the sun is at rest... Love is a stronghold in a storm. Love is the light in the dark. Love is hope. They were right—I agree this time: hope springs eternal isn't just a cliche. Because hope is love. They are one and the same, and in its absence is despair.
Love is a circle; it returns where it starts, back to its giver. If not, it is the risk taken, unrequited. Love is an arc, from one to another. Love is a shared umbrella.
Love is magic at work all the while. It injects the mind with reason and bleeds the heart...
Love is you ripped apart when someone you love leaves... It is a piece of you taken by the person. Love is your broken heart. But love frees you from your prison.
Love is the crimson running through your veins... The tears shed over the death of someone loved; love moistens the barren ground, and the same tears shed waters a new beginning. Love is where you start again...
Love moves. Love continues. It always watches, if in silence sometimes, but laughs loudly and unrestrained at happy times. Forgetting is irrelevant, for love forgives and lets go. Love lets you spread yours wings, and if not, love will walk with you, crawl with you... Carry you. Love is with you, if you let it.
Love is seen in action. It is lived, though love takes a lifetime to learn. Love is your mission, regardless of your passion. Love is your breath, each of which counts.
If there was god, then Love is God. If for nothing else, then I choose to worship Love.
For you and me. From me to you. Because if there was a hole in your sock, I would mend it for you, if you ask me to. But don't ask me to, I might not have the time. I might even laugh at you and/or buy you red socks. Because love is real like that. But I'd try to help mend your broken heart. If you ask me to. Because love is not imposed but offered. Yet it is always present. Only it will take a lifetime to metabolize it. Can you do it—Love?