Love is no piece of art:
No meticulously formed painting
Nor enchanting love song.
love is the blend of the brush and the paint
the smudging and smearing in the pallete
the red turning black
and the blue burning orange
splattering the apron
staining the ground
surrealy leaving its presence on everything it touches
love is the keys on the piano
s ha tte
ri n g
knots tied into the strings of the orchestra
forming a mass of white and black
brass and phosphor bronze
A solid mass of wood
Ivory
metal
spewing every single note of a beautiful symphony
simultaneously
resonating within the very essence of your being,
chaos shaking the foundations of what you may call a heart.
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