How I Measure Love

You asked me how much I love you.
On a scale from one to ten.

I whispered, "Infinity."

Because if I took a brush,
dipped in our love,
and painted a line made of whispered wishes,
and passionate kisses,
and tried to measure how much I love you,
it would stretch to the outer reaches of the universe.

And everyone would see that line,
twisting and curving,
in shades of happy tears and butterfly wings,
and say that someone crazy must have spent all that time painting it.
Or someone in love.

It would cross oceans on the backs of fish,
and cover cities, countries, and continents,
eventually breaching the atmosphere,
to play connect the dots with the stars. 
It would ricochet off comet tails, 
and weave playfully between Saturn's rings.

It would paint the universe in colors,
vivid neons,
and pale pastels,
that people could see, when they looked up into the night sky.
Like the northern lights,
our love could light up the Heavens.

It would paint the tips of wheat plants,
dyeing the field in shades of swaying beauty.

It would coat the canopies of the tallest trees,
so you could only really see its artistry from the sky.

It would wind through lost mountain roads,
so that only the locals,
and young couples, lost in each others eyes,
could appreciate the delicacy of that one hidden spot.

The business men,
with their eyes only on their work,
would pause when they stumble across that line.
See something besides their next paycheck,
or the inside of their cubicle.
And maybe it would help them see that love can sometimes be more important than their salary.

And single mothers,
whose exasperated sighs,
are coated in spilled spaghetti, 
and muddy feet,
will see it.
And maybe it will restore their faith that they can find beauty in the little things. 

But only you and I will know what it really means,
when billions of people look up in the sky,
and wonder where it came from.
Only you and I will know its true meaning.

And when I've painted every corner of the universe,
traveled across this planet,
to the next,
I'll paint that line to you.

I'll knock on your door,
that paintbrush still dripping at my side,
and finally throw myself into your arms.

And as the paint dries,
in a figure eight around our bodies, held as one,
my line will finally be done.
Because the only path I needed to trace,
to show you how much I love you,
was the one that stretched from me to you.