We talk aboutwhat love is and what it isn'tself-assuredly, telling each otherwhat looks right and wrong.

She looks at meand blames mefor all of the waysthat you don't love her.

There isa heaviness in meworth my weight in gold,passed over for copper.

The differencebetween being boundand being connectedis perception.

His gentle explorationin search of every frecklesparked the realizationthat love does notequal pain.

Love is stillnessquaked only by theleaves' cascading pirouettes.

Just like the dead limbsand overgrowth of trees,it is superfluous.Let it all go.

The sun, a chaser to the flood;spring, the winter.Nature, in absoluteness, fluctuates.It is the same for you and I.