Love is like a house

Love is that tree
which grows nowhere at all,
yet in whose shade I live.

Love is my unseen soft lips,
whose kiss-wounds I carry still.

Love is the spell of those familiar eyes
whose form I have never seen.

Love is those two hands
that hold my hands entwined... those arms
that feel like coming home.

Love is my own strange emptiness—
I gave it birth myself,
though I know nothing of its before or after.