THAT love is not flesh
nor blood
that kisses are wet
and full of yes
is Love’s truest.
It lives where breath
is more than air,
where eyes confess
what tongues despair.
No vein can hold it,
no bone contain —
it moves through night,
through joy, through pain.
And when all bodies
turn to dust,
Love stays —
unbroken —
as all Loves must.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 