To love is to be a flower,
Dropping lightly on the cheek of the beloved, grazing their hand like an invisible feather,
Leaving behind not a petal, or an ounce of pollen, or a whiff of fragrance.

Or maybe a faint scent that lingers a bit, then disappears entirely,
Making you wonder if it even existed.

To love is to be camphor,
First visible, then invisible,
Bleeding into the air, blending in with space, enriching presence fully, yet not.

To love is to be invisible, silent, weightless
To envelop without touching
To breath alongside without vapors
To allow for expansion, both for self and lover.