Eight Textures of Love

What is this number, "one"?
Without one, can there be any others?
In one, there is unity.
But can there not be two with one accord?
When I think of one, there is a special person on my mind.
Will (he/she) come into my life one day?

If so, 
how will I know the love of my life 
if people gain entrance only one by one?

There were loud drums!
There were fanfares blaring!
There were church bells ringing when I first saw you.
These torrents of excitement moved my soul.

The street between us was like a river of roaring water.
The brightness of your lovely face made me frantic to cross.
A miracle, thunder rumbled and the music stopped!
Lightning and ominous clouds scattered the frightened people.

When, at last, I could dare to cross the street,
	 my eyes were fixed upon you as I hurried.
Alas, the milling crowds erased you from my sight
	 just as the clouds engulfed the last sunbeam.
Horror struck me! 
How could I ever find you again?

When you're away, I imagine what the soul of night would say;
"In dark despair, I wait for dawn.
My light is gone!"

I wait for you to come again, 
	 as the night must wait for rays of light to give it love 
	 and save it from gloom
and make it warm.

You've got a rhythm that flows like a river in 
constant motion with a grace unexplainable. 

You have a unique feeling for rhythm. 
It is your mystique. 
Call it a rhythm within you.
I see it! 
Maybe, some day, we can free it. 
I'm in love with it!
Rhythm makes me survive. 
Rhythm keeps me alive!

Never stop the rhythm! 
Let your beat confuse me, utterly!
Passion is a raw, vibrating rhythm 
moving forward with steps the same as yours. 
Touch me! 
Let me feel it! 
If you reveal it, 
I may steal it. 

Your rhythm taunts me with sight and sound and flow. 
Such movement haunts me in ways too deep to know. 
My dearest pleasure is watching you 
in slow motion, 
subtly dancing. 
You're so entrancing, your rhythm makes me want to move. 
You've got a rhythm that flows like a river with constant notion.

Because of the way that nature made me,
I always stand two inches taller than whatever surrounds me 
trying to steal the light of my life.
My leaves can be food for the hungry.
My flowers adorn the necks of children.
My hue is the very color of joy!
I am strong!
I am hardy!
I am the very first to proclaim Spring!
Can the orchid or the rose say that?
Can the violet or the daffodil?
If not, then why am I the "lowly" dandelion?
Why am I so difficult to love?

I think of love as bells toll a lullaby to the murmuring night.
There is mist, but through the mist, their melody brings a golden dawn.
Clear through the mist, 
their melody brings a luminous kind of golden dawn.
I think of life with you.
Hush!  
Chimes ring!

Are people not like flowers?
Do they not follow the sun?
Do they not eat honey and drink rain?
Do they not vary in size and raiment?
Are there not some "perfect," 
some costly, 
some dangerous,
and some, even ugly?
If flowers are like people, 
do they watch and listen 
and, perhaps, converse?
Then, after death, do they not return?

It is, for me, impossible to determine right from wrong

	 when the love of my life is concerned.
Reason and Experience attest to the futility of struggling with Heart,
	 the center of Love's awesome power.
Fearful threats by Ruin, Disgrace and Ridicule 
do their utmost to contain me.
But the mere thought of her illuminates my spirit with such fire 
that all such foes wither in its presence.
Our Creator has made us to set one another aflame with desire,
	 but yet, proclaims it sinful that we should even touch!
Although He may loose Thompson's "Hound of Heaven" to seek me out if I

should transgress, 
I shall run, fearlessly, to the arms of my beloved, 
just to give the beast a mission.
If I must suffer condemnation to see my love, 
	 there will be no contest.
One touch from her fingertips is worth a thousand horrid bites.
One kiss from her sensuous lips is worth the ravaging canine jaws!
Although the hound, as the law's avenger, 
may shake me by the neck
	 until my spirit fades away,
	 he will soon realize his failure to punish. 
When he withdraws his ugly teeth, 
he will observe the contented smile 
upon my poor, dead face.