What This Love Is Not

It is not the power that turns back tides, or topples mountains to the graves of sand, nor is it that which feeds the nuclear sun or bids the moon eclipse at will. It is not the force that guides the wind or causes the implosion of stars, nor is it that which quakes the earth or rules the turning of the world. This love is the whispered morning words in kisses placed upon the sleepy brow, the delicate shiver along the thread of nerves bunched within the nape of neck. This love is the slow increasing beat, of heart held in the tingling breast; this love is the touch of flesh and mind, the contacts of divinity and depth.