I thought Love would be all the things the Poets said:
Sunlight on the Face, red roses on the Bed.
It came in with Grandeur accompanied by Hope
Who my last love left behind, after he eloped.
After him, it seemed sane to give up and turn away,
But Love always seems to come with the intention to stay . . .
[Or so I thought in the vaguest of fantasies –
Dreaming of a Love carved with brilliant fancies]:
He would do this and He would be that;
He would say this and He would feel that;
He would cherish and care a hell of a lot;
He would protect and – you know, all that rot.
He came and He loved in a manner not Mine
And I have grown enough to give up on Time.
I love him, too,
But one thing is true:
The Love is never your Love,
When it happens for you.