“Write about love”, she said.
He thought he had.
Words about joyous and happy and glad.
Pages and journals and books and poems.
Letter painted echoes of deeply felt moans.
Showed emotion and the truth and the yearn.
Soared to the heights and burst through the burns.
Yet love was not mentioned.
At least not by itself.
Masked and in shadow.
Even though felt.
“Write about love”, she said.
He thought he had.
Love of the global, the happy, the sad.
Love of all others that starts deep within.
Love of what happened and what not yet has been.
Love of the flowers and feel of the night.
Love in the trust that all will be right.
Love of breathing and touch of the flesh.
Love that continues beyond that end rest.
“Write about love”, she said.
That’s what he did.
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