This face, my face, you see it, but can you trace it by memory in darkness? Do you know what makes it distort and where it creases, why it is so well worn?

These words, my words, you hear them, you listen, but do you consume them? Do you devour even the regrettable and ugly?

These lips, my lips, you feel them, but do you taste them, the heat, the desire, do you know what it means when they part or tremble?

The silence, the space I leave for hope of your interjection. Do you see it, hear it, feel it, or is it just quiet?

These eyes, my eyes, you meet them in gaze and comfort but do you know what waters their weeping, what makes them light?

With this being, this body, you are well acquainted, but you do not know what makes it move, what steeps its bones,  what shifts its soul, why it loves so recklessly?

You love it, but you do not know it, me.
So then, what is this love?