Love is.
Love is unoriginal.
Love is all around.
Love is flowers, and song, and birds.
Love is sunsets, and moutains, and canyons.
If you could speak or write or hear or see love. Its been done before.
Love is paitent, love is kind. Yes.
Love also doesn't wake up on time, and leaves the keys on the counter.
Love doesn't do the laundry or change the diapers when you ask.
Love is screaming, yelling, crying, and scowling.
Love makes faces at you behind your back and drinks to much wine while out to dinner with your parents.
Love doesn't like the way you make meatload or how you fold your socks.
Love hates the way you tap on the steering wheel when your bored and the way you laugh when you're trying to impress people.
Love just is.
But you are love.
Love is a word, a thing, and action, a noun, verb, adverb, whatever.
But you are your love.
Your love may not be as deep as the ocean, but it could be as wide as the sky.
Your love may not flow like a spring, but it may renew like the sand on the shore.
Your love may not be blind, but it may convinently hard of hearing.
If there is a word about love it's be said. If there is a story about love its been told. Every metaphor, simile, poetic phrase, anicdote, musing, tidbit, and ryhme. Done, done, and done.
But no one is you.
You with the kind eyes and the loud voice.
You with the shy smile and the boistrus laugh.
In a thousand years, a million poets, could have complied their works and not come up with this.
Because nothing. No story. No anicdone. No song. Could have made love like this.
Love so childish and innocent.
Love so unexpected and untamed.
Love so puzzling and perfect.
Love so reckless and adventuring.
Love on its own is unoriginal and tired.
People make love new. People like you.
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