Love is to me, a feeling you get,
when the first move you make you never regret
nor do you have a chance to forget
the one thing you haven\'t yet met
it is a sadness for others, a sense of compassion
a twist of surrealism and faith everlasting.
It is not an object, or easily described, it is intangible and often defied. It is my excuse to continue with life, hopefully and noiselessly searching for a wife. Maybe it is meant to be for us all, or maybe only certain individuals get the call. Love to me is a spur of the moment, hidden and golden futuristic explosion, it is lost in translation and often found in distortion, unkindly looked upon and blown out of proportion. It is the butterfly in the stomach that ceases to control, that feeling of being drawn toward that one special soul. It is unattainable through physicality, and casually treated with brutality, battered and abused it is normal for misuse. I find it to be amazing, an energy blazing with infidelity and trust, the walking contradiction that always \"happens to us\". It is bursting at the seams and ripping it\'s own stitches, falling out of place and into deep dark ditches. It is to me what it is to others, a personally gratifying experience felt between two lovers.
