language of love

I hesitate to let go
of what I think I know,
because although it may be false,
it offers a sense of security.

How does one live authentically
in a perpetual state of relativity?
How does one discover true love
when the true nature of love defies finite definition?
All we have are these poor translations.

My translation may be lacking, or even corrupt,
but it is my own unique language,
and I will own it.
I will own my love
and I will not let go.

I will not let go…

I will not let go
of what I know:

My language of love
describes you.

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