Theory

 Love is
a growing thing.
A sort of bliss in life:
content, in a way,
with past, present and future.

And yet,
through unknowable magic,
it never ceases to become more.
That is where its contentedness lies:
in its eternal becoming.

The only
real question is:
where does it start?
For we know it does
not end.

Romantic?

 A Romantic I've been called,
A description more disturbing once realized.
Doomed to see lines on a page melt at the edges and fall into waves,
each sweeping the last out of sight beneath itself.

Forced by your own heart not to kiss her
'till the Lord showers you with His blessing from the clouds above,
And then laughing at how all the best kisses are wet.

We all learned that lesson first in love,
as we kissed our family members on the cheek goodnight,
to see them smile and wipe their faces.

So here I sit like some child with a crayon;
wishing these lines would soften at the edges,
rise and fall with a splash!
then reach with all their might,
streaching as they may
to lay their foaming fingers on the binding.