The lover is innocent

In the state, there is no difference.
Obsessed,
Some will reflect His light
In every direction they face.

Others,
Utterly absorbing,
Veiling Him
In sweet embrace.

Some,
As course as rubble,
Others, subtle,
As linen and lace.

Yet more,
Exhibitionists,
And others
Vanishing, without trace.

There is no one way to love,
Not tenderly,
Not violently,
Not subtly or extravagantly,
There’s just love,
Let it be how it wishes to be.
-W.E.