poem

How is it that there was never youuntil there wasand then all was you?

I can sense your love,why leave me in darkness?Beguile me for your amusement,stealing my soul without kisses. You are the sun and I, the moon. Your beauty is reflected in my eyes.When we are apart, I am extinguishedin the blackness of these skies.

What is this lovethat makes me see beauty,and makes every beautiful thing bring you back to me?What is this lovethat makes me declare 'I love you'even though I uttered itonly a moment ago?What is this love that keeps growing even when my chest is soreand it hurts to love you any more?Tell me:How am I to find what this love iswhen it was the one to find you, me, this verse, and this universe?

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I have placed you in my hallWhere I wander every day.Echo beauty, and you__l stay.

She's kind of a walking poem, she's this perfect beauty...but at the same time very deep, very smart.

I have no use for these other loves.Seal them shut in jarsand place them in the pantry. A reserve of love.Thank them for their love.They are so kind.Perhaps store them in the fridgeFor others to take.They say love is a panacea. I know it is not.Flakes of snow,no two are alike.When I am down on my knees, hopeless and angry,for the world no longer makes sense,I won't look in the pantry or fridge.It is your hand pressing on my shoulderthat makes me whole,makes me forget.What trouble? What world?

Knowing you,I became mindless.Having wasted previous wishes,I'm riddled with regretsFeeling you,I became hopeless.Adrift in chasms,I surrender to a caress.Loving you,I became love.My universe became love.Planets rotate on love's axes andapples fall to be near their beloveds.No longer a rationalist, I assert my existence with love. I love, therefore I exist,therefore I love.

I write our names on the page.What of it, if the paper will be burned?I write our names in the sand.What of it, if the shore will be washed by waves?I write our names on trees that will be cutand benches that will be painted,but what of it?I will keep on writing our namesbecause in this world of ephemera, You and I are the only constant.

Be you.That, my friend,is the change you wantto become in the world.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words have the ability to change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Before you, nothing.Now you, and everything

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

Let us remember to always rediscover one anotherbecause we are forever changing.

Towards these weeks of rain I give effusive praise. Let me always be reminded that there is time for change.

This poem was meant to be unwritten. But I am writing it now and have thereby changed destiny.

That's old Twoflower, Rincewind thought. It__ not that he doesn__ appreciate beauty, he just appreciates it in his own way. I mean, if a poet sees a daffodil he stares at it and writes a long poem about it, but Twoflower wanders off to find a book on botany. He just looks at things, but nothing he looks at is ever the same again. Including me, I suspect.

...my body has becomeanother countryand I feel like an unemployedillegal alienhow will I survivewhere I do not belongI belong with you

She's vodka in a sexy lingerie and high heels.I'm always drunk.