The Art of Love

 The art of love

was born in me

the moment I watched you.

Not just your body—

but the way you existed.

Your presence—

like a dead thing

suddenly blooming again.

I began to feel you.

To see you.

To wander around you

just to steal

the weight of a glance.

I began to crave you.

And when night

changed its color,

I began

to become you

under the dark sky.

You are in me.

The rhythm of sound.

The rhyme of breath.

The vibration

of being alive.

You—

my love.

Let the world

confess to you.

Let it bring flowers.

Let it steal your breath.

Still—

you remain in me.

A harsh wind.

A smooth knife.

Cool wine.

A burning cigarette.

To feel you

is to feel alive—

a moment

stretching into a century.

I love you.

Between abyss and heaven

I raise my hand—

to prove

I am still alive.

Between ocean and shore

I become wind

just to reach you.

Let the world

long for you.

Let it touch you,

shape you,

change you.

Still—

you are mine

only in feeling.

When the sky empties,

when the ocean dries,

when the earth begins to die,

when even wind feels useless—

don’t weep.

I am there.

In the dark.

In the light.

In the twilight.

In the dawn.

Everywhere

you forget to look—

I am there.

This universe

may fit in my hands—

but we are still

an illusion.

Still—

I am there.

I am there, love.

Sleep quietly.

When the world whispers

“I want you, I need you”—

close your eyes.

Love—

I am loving you.

I am loving you.

I am loving you.

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You are warm in another world.

And I—

am burning here.