Love is love; but love isn’t enough, is it?
A bullet is the unlikeliest end;
But that can happen sudden; even worse,
Love can very subtly fade out or pretend
To be just nestling there when it is not.
The complexities lessen and pass on
To other more trivial things like bills
And other matters mundane and forlorn.
It is a matter for weeping truly;
Where did all of the good get up and go?
Where is the happily ever after?
Oh, How very much I would like to know!
Was it cast out to make way for life’s woe?
Have younger bodies teased a lost passion?
Was that all love had to be, do and say
In a somewhat daintier fashion?
Love is love, I reckon; but I can tell:
It permeates like frost on life’s window,
And what I could see from it, like before,
May be there still; but I cannot be sure.
If bullets strike my heart I could recall,
In the throes of pain, of what used to be;
And, despite the frost forming on the panes,
I may look beyond and think I truly see.
Perhaps the fading and the forgetting
Are needed to create the shielding frost;
There may not be a need to remember,
For what’s here is clear and was never lost.