My love is not some fancy in the heart,
A rush of blood, or coursing through the veins,
A heated passion tearing me apart,
To leave a hole when nothing else remains.

It is not depth, nor breadth that soul can reach,
For even souls cannot to love’s height rise.
It is the trusted feeling, each to each:
Your bones, my bones, one flesh, to each a prize.

And then a child’s laughter, or a cry,
A late night feeding, or a wound to kiss,
An anger that you stifle and let die,
A jealous pang, or passion you dismiss.

My dreams now walk the earth, walk straight and tall.
My love, you are my dream, and that is all.