It wasn’t you, it was the breathing of slumber while awake.
It was the quiet poetry of the breathing lake.
It was “I love you,” shyly spoken
Which made the previous world’s broken love a thing finally broken.
Time hurried to take the place of time.
You took me in my weakness with a mere rhyme.
It was a warmth we consciously enjoyed—
A kindness inside the words employed.
It was a deep breathing that gave us pleasure,
Thought to be love, due to the slower measure
Of breath, and each rising and falling breath
Became slow, and almost resembled death.
We gave birth to love; our love, a new born baby
We as parents, looked upon, knowing that maybe
Love would be love. To be love, love must grow.
Love’s growth requires kind words to make breathing slow.
Writing, the mystery of love!
My eyes shared in the beauty that you are.
My eyes and yours arrived from the same star,
The same stream. Our hearts keep
The same insouciant beat.
They miss together one, and then,
Beat fast, faster again,
And again, fall twinkling down in tune,
With the falling leaves falling about the moon.
Leaves of soft sorrow, leaves of grief,
Leaves in which we hide
Inside the same sorrow, side by side.
Now deep, and slow the breath.
I never knew that love was death!
My fingers shyly entwined in yours,
Holding moments, begging to rhyme,
Begging to run in leaves of time,
And there I lived, beyond,
Reality of time and space,
Here, my warm embrace,
Here my greatest solace,
Death of pride and yesterday
You, oh, you, today.
Love requires a wedding of red paint,
A lengthy ritual, a ceremony to make sadness faint,
As a beautiful lampshade covers a white light,
The passion, warm, but too much for our sight.
And so we made these words our own,
And put love on a commoner’s throne,
We, who needed love far more—
For we had never loved before.