And maybe that's the problem,
he tells me one night,
his eyes made of pure stardust.
Maybe you don't know,
he tells me,
what love is.
I tell him I do, I do, I do.
Love is this, I tell him,
love is you.
He laughs and laughs,
the sound of angels rejoicing,
and whispers to me words
I shall not soon forget.
Love, he says, is the feeling
of the Sun on your skin.
Love, he says, is the sound
of laughter, of joy.
Love, he says, is this moment,
love is us.
YOU ARE READING
undone - a poetry book
Poetrypoems. about death. about love. although i was never really sure there was that much of a difference there. for is it not true that when we die we are loved more?
