You watch lovers hold hands,
but you do not see the subtle thumb caress,
the electricity between their shoulders,
the stolen glances of knowing among two.
You listen to someone speak of their person,
seemingly over-the-top professions of love,
but you do not hear the song in their head when this person is around,
the bells and harmonies,
the ringing and pulsating,
the energy of the other
in the air.
To view love as an outsider,
is like asking a poet to write with no muse,
like asking someone to experience joy for you.
To be in love,
is to be fulfilled from the scraps of mortality,
for the everyday to become highly personal,
to move through life,