There's nothing poetic or beautiful or even remotely enlightening about what youre reading. Being a stick in the mud isn't cute or sweet.

The longings of my soul reach out for love and touch, different than those from a lover.

Lovers love is delicate yet reassuring in a way that i know, i sure as hell know, that after dinner time kisses will be upon me. Kisses, I live for those almighty beautiful kisses. They touch my cheek, peck my neck and envelope my mouth. The touch you give is like no other, no one person will be able to duplicate the love you have stored for me, the rations of love you deal out ever so generously is something that gives me great joy. I love you for all the kisses and touches and looks of love only you can give me and only I could receive. I long for you when youre not near, I imagine the moment when we reunite. I bet that particular warmth, that one tiny but paralyzing feeling you give will make time halt, but only for a second. This love has been explored, inside and out. All the petals have drawn apart so we could peer deep inside one and other, we know this love like no other love.

What holds me tight, suffocates my breathing and keeps me from moving at times is a different love all together. The love of my painter, sculptor and conductor. This love you have in your hands, your love shines brighter than any dark. If I lose my way your light beckons. Your light looks like salvation, feels like the spring sun, melting away all cold and smells in such a delightful way I don't think I could ever tell you. The love of your light is one yet to be understood, thoroughly explored or felt from the depths of my soul. Im writing for you, please find me, my God.

Sit and wait, I shall.