What A Thing Is

Sometimes a bed is just a bed and nothing more and then

sometimes, a bed is a sanctuary to make love in and to dream beautiful dreams in and then sometimes a bed is just a bed and nothing more.

Sometimes a hand is just a hand and nothing more but then

sometimes, a hand is a symbol of your protection, of your love, of a feeling that will never go away no matter how many tears you cry to wash away the memory but then sometimes a hand is just a hand and nothing more.

Sometimes a heart is just a heart and nothing more; beating, pumping, providing the pulse of life and then

sometimes, a heart is the feeling box that pumps pain and fear and hope and love. 

But then sometimes a heart is just a heart and nothing more, pumping from the left atrium to the left ventricle; to all the places blood goes.

Sometimes lips are just lips and nothing more: pursed in concentration, bitten in contemplation. but then

sometimes, lips are more than lips: pursed in hope, bitten in ecstasy. Lips that glisten from the kiss of someone else. 

But then sometimes lips are just lips and nothing more.

Sometimes a sigh is just a sigh and nothing more. A gasp of air expelled from tired lungs. But then

sometimes, sighs are sad and long, exhausted from working or loving or hurting. Sometimes though, a sigh is just a sign and nothing more.

And then there is love which is never just love and nothing more. Love which is never simple or only good. Love which is grueling and miserable. Love which is everything but just a word; love. Love which is challenging and sad, short-lived and lonely.

What are things if they are only things and nothing more?

Things doing only what they must and nothing more?