Love is a delicate red rose, with petals that unfold a myriad of mysteries. A few thorns may scare us off at first, but its innate beauty draws curious admiration and desire fills our nostrils and irises. It does take some bravery to reach out and grab its stem, to twist and turn it carefully between the fingers, close the eyes, lose control and inhale the intoxicating smell of freshness; then open the eyes again, and immerse into its sensuous splendour.
We have no choice but to accept that sometimes we don’t have a choice. Lighting doesn’t care whether it’s day or night, nor do the waves of the ocean stop rolling when the sun sets. Time does not rule all. Therefore love is art, for it can not be explained with sense or reason. It can not be clearly described why a rose is so intriguing and we’d all use different words to do so. It’s always interpreted differently than it was created or ever meant to be.
Love is the verb, the subject and the object of one and the same sentence. And we are all a writer. Yet grammar never matters; nor does vocabulary, punctuation, or style even. The only thing which is truly important is the intention, which is in the act, much more than in the word. We find love, then love finds us.