Where Does All the Love Go

Where does all the love go? 
Is it like the wind, 
unrealized yet felt? 
Like chaff blown about and 
to what end would the tumble rest? 
Or like the lotus flower
that floats from water's edge? 

Could one consume it like holy communion
where wafer dissolves on the tongue? 
Or could one simply claim it with spoken words: 
"At last! This one is bone from my bone, 
and flesh from my flesh"? 

Where does all the love go 
if not to the one that it's intended for? 

Painting by Claude Monet, c.1907