What is love?

Is love a heart drenched in juicy, thick sweetness?

Is it a tender touch around the waist?
Or soft kisses on the cheek

Is love a kiss on your forehead, when you arrive home from work?

Or is it the sound of your name, in the softness of your daughter’s voice, and on the husky voice of your teenage son or is it what you hear in the carefree fondness of the last?

Is love, praises about your body curves? Or stories, silently said, in those stares, about the plumpness of your lips? Is love found in the lean and masculine structure?

Or is it the African heat, penetrating the coarseness of your hair? Is it when you are drenched in sweat – and it drips down your back, following the formation of your back bone – then parting, tracking the creases and curves, to where it desires.

Or is love uncensored conversations with your inner circle. Talking in hushed tones on a subject only you can talk about, together.

Do you equate love to trust, to the feeling of being naked but un-mortified? Is it when you bare it all, drop out your skeletons and feel no judgment?

Or are you a child of words, yearning poetic resonance? Do you love intimate nothingness whispered in your ear? Or do random, anonymous notes, on your table, bed or windshield satisfy you?

Do you want music under candle light, hand in hand, face to face, no words said, but tears down the cheeks saying it for you?

Or is love, work? Is it getting your hands dirty? Is love walking barefooted in the gardens, cutting through grown scrubs and daring rose thorns, to pick and shape buds and bushes. Do you find yourself drawn to the smell of soggy soil, desiring to work with and on it? Do you find love in the works of your hands, your creation?

Or is love in the pit of your belly, butterflies in your stomach? Is love tight long hugs, refusing to let go? Looking intently into each other’s eyes?

What is it?

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