It should come on its own accord—
so I will not chase what isn't there.
But I do sense its reckoning, tallying in abundance between us.
I hear it—not like the allure of a sweet poison from a viper—calling to me like the glistening strings of a harp.
Yes, I admit there is a spark.
I close my eyes and turn away my face.
I think it is something else.
Until finally, it calls my name.
Then, I open my eyes—look!
It is there!
But I choose to be careful and not make haste.

Love ought not to be stirred, but awakened between us;
like a shiver in the air—the very goosebumps on my clavicles—when you come near.
Let it be like a kiss of the wind on my face, and not just another means for you or me to pocket an ace.
I'm not here for sempiternity, a finite desire that is often fickle.
Has it not been clear that the intimacy I long for is one that represents life in eternity?
This is something I desire for you and I,
greater than any passion between the hips or another promise from the lips.

Yes, love is meant to be more than this—made for the soul, not just for the skin alone.