Love is not poetry.

It cannot be written;
you will always miss the point by a long shot.
It cannot be copied;
you will never capture the essence of the virtue.
It is not a story
waiting to be told,
or a storm
in the making.
It is not a fantasy
of epic proportions,
or a terrible dream
you cannot escape.
It is a paradox:
alive but without breath,
dead despite the beating hearts
drumming out
their songs
within
it. 

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