A love poem

 Pure

We must have loved before,

in another time, place, existence.

How else explain it?

Only yesterday, it seems,

I prayed for peace, for calm,

and she became the answer

to my prayers.

It was only when

I forgot my own needs,

observed the truth of my

good fortune, that I could see

my daily madness vanish.

Cherishing her became

the source of my happiness,

holding her love close,

not wanting it to fade,

like a perfect Spring day,

sometimes still, always glorious.

I love her sense of style,

lifting me up 

from blandness.

I love that she loves,

me and most living things.

I love that we can be together 

for hours and not talk.

I love her honesty,

like when she eats my cooking,

and only complains a little bit.

In the end, though,

my love is not written 

on virtual paper, such as this.

It is is, rather,

etched in my very being.