Perhaps it is simply an illusion
A myth taken from the pages of time
To make us covet, to make us feel
Instill a sense of direction.
.
When we are all just puppets,
Held by its strings on destiny
A nameless formless intoxication of the mind
Led by the skips and tugs of the heart.
.
Yet when two destinies collide
Tales are written and celebrated
Inked by the pull and push of the forces
Whimsical and barely out of reach
.
Connects us to people and memories
Unties the knots of emotions
Releases the pulse of your inertia
Rushes the blood to the core of your soul
.
A kinetic energy that sparks between them
Beyond science and engineering
Lighted by the divine interstellar explosion
Otherwise simply referred to as love.
Simply love.
An Armchair Perfectionist 