If passion was clothing,
We’d never be naked…
Some feelings are too immense for words,
Too painfully explosive to cross one’s lips.
And when they dare breach that threshold,
They tumble out jumbled and quivering from exhaustion.
They dance around in one’s head,
Jumping to a feverish pitch,
Wanting to consume their object,
Wanting to be one with it,
To mold atom into atom,
To literally be it.
Love is called a fire,
One is said to burn with passion,
To be consumed with it,
To be enraptured by its object.
Love is terrifying in its power,
In its ability to empty one’s mind,
And fill it with nothing but thoughts about the beauty and loveliness of another.
Love has the power to consume hours,
To make time disappear,
As one lies in the arms of another.
Love is a power,
A thing not to be trifled with.
It is a terrible monster,
Lying in wait,
Waiting to pounce upon two people when they are least expectant,
Waiting to consume them and make them act with insanity.
Love is an action.
Driven by a will to serve another.
Undergirded with a passion to make the other immensely,
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