Real love isn’t found in kisses—it’s found in the darkness you’re willing to accept.

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Love comes not,

when you kiss her smiling lips and turn your feelings South,

and find them sweet and moist, past that formidable pout

And love comes not,

when you hold her hand and choose to kiss her bitter mouth,

and find it sour and so parched, her sadness, an eternal drought

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Love comes not,

when you lie down together, the naked you with the naked her,

her warmth entwined with yours, and the feelings that you stir

And love comes not,

when you hold your ego in check and laugh and cry with her,

the silly mistakes you commit, and the boundaries that you blur

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Instead, love comes,

when you walk in her shoes and choose to fight her fight,

finding all that is absolutely dark, and finding all that is light

And love comes,

when you feel the warmth with joy and own the day with pride,

when you walk the path to darkness, you trace the origin of night

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Love really comes,

when you sneak into her soul, and see the real wreckage,

finding all that is rotten, the ugly weight of her baggage

And love really comes,

When you search for her broken heart and find the only passage,

owning all that is rotten, sharing the burden of her baggage