Foreseen and Fragmented

What was the sound of love? The taste . . . the texture?
Pale brown leaves, the texture of coarse words, fell from the even scratchier trees. The wind sounded like screams around us and we had to cover our ears to ever slightly muffle it. A hand goes out to catch the rain that was falling, but the fingertips looked nothing like your own. You wonder again, what is the texture of love?

Sighing gently, you accidentally stir the wind around you, and the leaves fall quicker. Was it (love) the same as the texture of lips, or more like the texture of a kiss?

You touch your lips tenderly, a little more lost in thought then you intended to be. Beautiful were the thoughts you encountered, but couldn't possibly be true; thoughts such as love didn't have a taste, texture, or sound, only a meaning of existence.

But everything has a thought, a texture, a moment where they could be played upon and tasted. I didn't much like the thought of this feeling being nothing but a meaning that could barely begin to be described.
You contemplate more. Love certainly had a taste - the taste of a kiss. Love certainly had a texture - the texture of touch. And love certainly had a sound - the sound of your voice. So, you contemplate to yourself further, how could love be merely a feeling, and nothing more, if it has all these things?

Perhaps love wasn't a feeling at all, you consider, but a moment in time where everything is perfect. Yes, that was it, it was time. Love was time, not an emotion, and time was life, and love is what we live for. So, love is the reason for living, most definitely.

Yes, love wasn't a feeling at all, for one could live without malice or failure, but one finds it difficult to live without love.

You shake your head in a smile. How smart you really were.