The phenomenon of devouring

A soft wandering becoming another shade
of craving at nightfall.
No wires crossed or alarms ringing.
Most of the birds have quieted.

What words fit the shape of love?
Soft, twisting branches, or breaking waves
along some faraway place only we can find,
or maybe something simpler like… touch.

There are unnameable forces we try to fit
inside colors or sounds but it is as if we try
to swallow storms whole and explain the aftertaste- like storm sommeliers.

An infinite number of planes and somehow
we find our way to each other,
nodding at the inevitability of the magic
as we devour day after day with joy.

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