Author Information
Dove (E)
You cannot find love, in spite of yourself;
you seek to find love, made for yourself.
Delved upon like a subject worth conjecture;
dwelt upon like a narrative you find
yourself enamored with for many an hour:
as if the readings of obscure, obtuse
philosophers that seek to alter every observable act.
You feel a constant low humming,
not unlike the sound of a brightly burning light;
which seems to radiate/intensify
only when in close proximity to her.
There is a heavy, perfumed thickness
to every stricken breath you take
that tugs at the conscious much of the time,
and tugs at the fingers always.
Symbols brightly colored
feel somehow more engrossing,
and the walls appear to melt
with that one, particular presence.
