Tell Me, This Love... Poem by indira babbellapati

Nothing or none could ever tell
what this love is. Love, that can
assume any colour, any taste,
scent or colour without a context
without a reason. Many are the poems
on love, no story without a trace;
Fluid in nature, any shape it's poured into.
Kisses can't seal it. Only lips get sealed,
overflows beyond an embrace reducing
us to kids at play. Or adults at work...
Everything, everything in bits and parts
pushed under the heart, stored in
invisible niches. Draw the blinds!
Elsewhere yonder, we search
and re-search...the blinds remain drawn
what's pushed under laden the heart;
the niches hide in more niches...

Now,
tell me-
what's its colour?
what's its scent?
what's its shape?
Beyond inches and feet
five or six or more...
No constraints.
No limitations.
This Love.

16apr2015
between 1330 n 13.50hrs