It's butterflies in your belly, but slightly heavier,
A silent flutter, a gentle throb, a sense so peculiar.
If love were a number, it'd be an odd one,
Why?
Divided, it's never clean, there's always something left, a reminder here.
Like an echo that lingers, a ghost unseen,
A part of you left in spaces you've been.
Why do we squeeze it into one word - "love"?
When it's a myriad, a myriad of complex emotions, the opposite of cold.
Isn't it giving myself to you, sharing my soul,
But when you left, I felt strangely whole.
Why call it a "break-up" then, if I'm still intact?
Am I too cold, or is it love that I lack?
If love was a color, it wouldn't be red,
Too visible, too blatant, too quickly read.
Neither would it be blue, cool as a breeze,
Love is a flame, not meant to freeze.
Yellow, too simple, green, too wide,
A color to match love's turbulent tide?
Orange, perhaps, a blend of two extremes,
A concoction of passion, and tranquil dreams.
A fusion of hues in a world gone grey,
Isn't that what love's like, at end of day?
I may not know love, as some do claim,
Yet in its mystery, I find no shame.
But why box love in numbers or colors,
When it's free, bright, and wild, unlike any other?
So here's to love, odd and orange - undefinable,
An emotion so vast, so unconfined - undeniable.
A force that surprises, disrupts and reforms - unexplainable
In the end, there is only one word that can explain love - Love.