"What is love," she asked,
For I've been deceived.
They were quiet
And so I believed
Love was a quiet porch,
And an always-made lunch,
And a bedtime story,
And three words.
"If you care," she proposed,
Then you stick to a budget,
You put the kids to bed
And never argue about it.
Forget about romance
And the wedding dance.
About the kids and, perhaps,
Another on the side.
"Not that, you say? Well
Then what," she queried?
Is it a holding of the hand,
Or the ring that says married?
How would you know it?
How would I know it?
Does it end on that
Zero anniversary day?
Perhaps it is when.
The question, I mean.
Over time it fades.
It is a transitory being.
How can my love be ample
With this set example?
Will I ever be able
To simply, eternally, love.
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