When the world speaks of infinities,
they speak of vast distances and gaping heights.
They speak of endless oceans filled with the salt
of fossilized stones crushed over eons of years.
They speak of mountains that rise so high,
no single human-dead or alive- can claim to see the peak.
They speak of numbers so large and limitless
that the mind boggles trying to find a matching word.
But when I speak of infinities I speak of little miracles,
humble though they may sound as they roll off my tongue.
I count in seconds, minutes and hours. Because they’re precious.
I have plans. Oh Darling, if only you could hear my plans!
They span years and decades and centuries and lifetimes,
but, let’s not talk about those infinities, Darling.
Let’s not speak about the impossible and the unreachable.
Just think of my hand holding yours for the next moment or two.
Think of my eyes staring boldly into yours for a few seconds.
And now stretch all those magical moments and seconds
for as long as you could possibly imagine, no end in sight.
And that, Darling… that is true infinity.
My love for you is not a burning fire that consumes with passion.
If my love for you is like a flower blooming sweet in a midnight garden,
you are the rich, earthy soil. Mysterious and pungent and heady.
Your love nourishes me and I bloom as your love surrounds me.
Later, I will wither and spindle into tiny, tiny fragments of flower
And then I too shall nourish you, truly become a part of you.
We speak of infinities and we speak of magic as if they’re beautiful,
impossibly foolish dreams children chase after like faeries in the dark.
And is there anything more beautiful, more foolish, more innocent than love?
The world shall speak of endless deserts with orange sands,
and leave magic to charming gypsies who murmur cants under breath.
But Darling, you are my magic. You are my infinite.
There, that is my attempt at a romantic poem. Although, I fear I put in more over-dramatization and forbidden love than I intended to in this piece.