Love is for all intents and purposes of an object as an obsession, everybody thirsts it, everybody run after it, but few ever attain it. Those who do will adore it, comfort it, be lost in it, and among all, not under any conditions forget it.
It is the compassion of his accent when he expresses of her.
It is his fingertips hunting the curlicues of her bare shoulder,
And persisting ceaselessly along her arm and
The petite of her back-
It clauses in the rush
of glow to her timidity, the rosiness blush
And spiral braid of her lips, the twirl reel
and pith thrust of her hips when
She grasps he is watching
It is the stunning of their eyes
It is the curl ripple and hurl toss
Of her villus hair, it is the loss
Of his breath in her sighs
It is the prophetical sibylline heat
Of the words they do don't speak
It is the fuzzy rough of his hands claiming her glowy skin.
It is the line of her tapered neck, the lift of her mandible chin
It is his obsession to pronounce her name again
And again, and again-
Love is a wonderful tender feeling
Obsession is an unhealthy fixation
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