If it was ever tangible, so real that its fruit dangled in front of your eyes, would you still stretch an arm to pluck it from its place? To separate it from its crooning branch that so firmly clasped it to its chest?
If it was so enchantingly glorious that the world rejoiced in plethora, in recognition of the excess that brought it to every wavering palm, would you close your hand around it? Would you still shut your eyes and smile silently to nobody but yourself?
If the moments of agony were no longer daggers but a sword of rose petals, would you still throw open the doors to greet the frightful knights that surrounded your palace? Would you still coerce the enemy into fighting a cruel gory battle with you?
If it spoke in a faint high voice that streaked through the crystal and was so clear you could see your reflection in its clarity, would you still find the beauty in the opaque? Would you still while away your listless moments in wonder, in strange guessing games it led you into?
If it was any of these, would you still call it love?
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