Her love is the moon above January's first snow,
and the snow itself.
It is the light powder underfoot that the night-breeze blows
into flurries through a heavy fog.
It is soft, it is patient, and it is calm.
It is the water running east through creeks in August.
It is the wind in June,
the rain in April,
and the frost in late November
that covers the dead-leaf blanket laid the month before.
Her love is the pleasant warmth of August-
not too hot and never too cold.
It is the smell of pine in December
and the feel of new grass beneath one's toes
in the middle of March.
Her love is a flood, all consuming,
it is total, unconditional, rapturous, quiet, and rare.
It is a paragon for eternity that the gods would envy,
but she chooses to never love.
But when she does- oh, how she loves!
She loves with her mind, with her heart, and with her lungs.
She loves with hands that hold,
fingers that caress,
ears that listen,
voice that comforts,
feet that follow,
back that carries,
and with each and every breathe that she breaths,
when she loves.
She lays beside her love, protects them,
and whispers many things in their ears while they sleep.
Her kisses are slow and gentle
and they say much more than her words,
when she loves.
She is fluid, she is stoic, she is constant and smooth,
when she loves, and she does so irrevocably.
But she's chosen to never love.
But, oh! When she does...
She loves deeply, and wholly, and categorically.
She loves her love like a wildfire loves dry grass,
like a bat loves sweet nectar,
and like the sea loves its shores.
She loves like pebbles skip over still ponds,
like new pens write on old paper,
like seasoned fingers move across battered keyboards,
and like old furniture covers new stains on dirty rugs.
She loves her love like a painter loves a fresh canvas,
like a writer loves blank pages,
and like a dancer loves a hardwood floor.
She loves like love unrequited loves finally being loved in return,
like no-one has ever loved before.
Author Notes: Thank you so much Dane.