the unnameable thing that the mystery of love hints at:
this is love itself, too simple to be put in words
at the beginning of beginnings, before time knew us
and here, where i am drowning in the meanings
where the numbers portend some vague reality
here is love unknowable except one completely lets go
into the void to release all angled preconceptions
for i have looked into too many mirrors passing by
that i have lost all imagination of what i could be
and love, it waits for me to find the misty trail
where time means less than a whisper that surely knows