If depression were a flavor, it would taste like a glass of water.
You could drink a bellyful and still be hungry.
If loneliness were a smell, it would smell like sunshine.
You could wake up on a beautiful summer day and inhale deeply,
but never smell it's warmth.
If doubt were a sound it would sound the the echo of a footfall
at the other end of a carpeted hallway.
Did you hear that?
But love, like water poured on a fist closed tight,
seeps all the way to its center.
And love, like the afternoon sun surrounding the coatless beggar,
warms his upturned cheek and clasps his frostbit fingers.
And love, like doubt, is a mystery and a wonder.
How do you know it has tiptoed past?