No love is as overwhelming and as pristine,
As the maiden love of a lass, say of sixteen.
When, like closed petals of a bud she begins to unfold
Herself, blossoming into a fragrant rose or marigold.
She seeks a hand to hold and wants hers as well be held,
In secluded privacy, from the outside world as if shelled.
She wants to love and be loved, to touch and be touched,
Promises never to leave the hand that she fondly clutched.
Standing on the crossroads of childhood and puberty,
She seeks a soul mate, not one who is always flirty.
She feels lonely at ...
Love is, listening to her heartbeats,
Imagining her assurances with every beat.
Love is, touching her like the softest feather,
Going to sleep touching together.
Love is, past midnight doing pillow talks,
stretching them till the morning walk.
Love is, to awaken her with a gentle touch,
To kindle her desires before making love.
Love is, to smile while watching her asleep,