Tell Me, This Love...

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