that is not love

I bend to the power
of water, let it flow into my mouth.
quenching
the thirst I've carried with me
for so long.
but it isn't love.
I lie in the warm sun, exposing
my skin
to the radiant heat
more generous than one could
hope for,
and yet,
that isn't love.
what's on my plate, seasoned
and filling,
a king's meal, I finish it with
bread,
with drink, but still,
as you might expect, that is
not love.
the book upon my lap,
the last page read, the satisfaction
of a story well told,
one I will forever
hold, and yet, that too
isn't close to being
what we're looking for, but
perhaps it will be
enough.