The mystery of love

What is the mystery called joy?  
A question I've often pondered,  
During the long hours of the night.  
In my melancholy, too oft  
Joy seems to be beyond my reach,  
A mirage that fades into dust  
Just as I think I can grasp it.  
So life becomes a denial  
Of all that I so vainly seek,  
Leaving me alone in the dark,  
Clutching at straws, and each false dawn
Bringing me nought but bitter tears.  
 
What is the mystery called love?  
In my darkest hours, I wonder  
If it is anything more real  
Than an illusory feeling,  
The product of mere chemistry,  
Seducing the mind with false hope.  
Yet I still seek that other one  
Who will accept me as I am,  
Flawed and doubting, bearing the scars
Of broken dreams, and wrong choices,  
One to take me beyond myself  
Into a bright new world of truth.  
 
There is another mystery,  
A wonder I do not deserve,  
Yet which has brought me love and joy.  
A gift of life, not merely chance,  
But something that seems preordained,  
From the beginning of the world.  
I cannot begin to answer  
The question why she should choose me,
Merely offer up a prayer  
Of grateful thanks to kindly fate.  
For in her arms I am complete  
And there I will for ever rest.  
 
The greatest mystery of all,  
Yet more profound and beautiful,  
Is the way that the heat and fire  
Of physical passion, an act  
Driven by mere lustful desire,  
Can become something far richer.  
So when I enter her body,  
And we mount up to a summit  
Of sweet ecstasy, swept along  
On waves of exquisite rapture,  
We enter a new world of bliss,  
Where our spirits unite as one.