Becoming Love

Love is without attachment.

No mirror, no witness,
only the hush of fog curling around a nameless dawn.

Love drifts…

As a phantom without address,
a whisper that never asks to be heard,

needing never to knock,

finding the wearing of jewels and robes unnecessary.

Love simply breathes

allowing us to enfold as one.

Most wander with cups chipped and hollow,
measuring absence like a ritual.

Half-empty, they say,
as if emptiness were a badge of truth.
But Love knows the vessel as brimming,
knows the ocean hiding in a single drop
knows fullness without proof,
without applause,
without the weight of eyes.

Invisible…

It hovers as a cloud without rain,
a ghost without grief,
a vapor threading through the density of silence.
Those who seek shape will miss it.
Those who demand color will call it void.
Yet it moves,
and in its movement,
the world tilts toward nirvana.

Becoming love…

Equates with wearing no name,

no pulse to declare its living,

Love wears no name,
needs no pulse to declare its living,

being the breath before breath,

a dream that dreams without dreamer.

Love remains the architecture of the unseen,
the scaffolding of every silence,
the echo that builds worlds from vapor.

needing to name or death,

only the endless corridor

where shadows forget themselves.

To become Love
is to vanish into the infinite,
to surrender the weight of identity,
to bloom as mist in the orchard of the eternal.
And in vanishing,
to fill everything,
every glass cup,
every hollow sky,
every whisper that thought it was alone.