It is not a love letter
No perfume-laced poetry
or eyelash flutters
No feathery bluebirds, carrying
twigs to build a home
No serenades or sonnets,
chocolates, roses, or hands intertwined
No embraces to envelop her
like the warm country air
Not love, but
passion

Pure passion
The constant rocking
through her torso
The animal that feeds
off her bones and muscles and marrow
That shoots through her blood
and urges her with slight nudges
through trees and hills
to him
To run with him
Her hair flailing,
grabbing at the gusts behind it
She sees his dark eyes
Golden tunnels into
His soul
Her soul
Not soul mates,
but one soul