An old poem of mine. It seemed appropriate.

Love? What is love?
Is it a river
Flowing smooth or
Rough in turns,
With bends and
Curves to keep you
On your toes?
I thought so.
But it isn't.

Love? What is love?
Is it in the grace
Of a woman walking,
Or the feel of
A man's body
In the flow of their
Speech, curl of their
Hair, sound of their
Joy or sadness?
I thought so.
But it isn't.

Love? What is love?
Is it a link
Between two people,
Friends at first,
Who share dreams and
Thoughts and feelings,
Who become so alike
That they surely
Must be one?
I thought so.
But it isn't.

These are the things
That love used to
Mean to me, an
Image in my mind
That can't translate
Into words, a tiny
Tendril of hope that
This would one day
Be mine to share.
I thought I had it.
But it's gone.

I'll find a new love,
A love which at
Times may pale
In comparison to
That which I once
Had. But then I
Stop, remember
His smiles, his
Touches, changing
Into ignorance
And cold glances,
And wonder how
Can love be
Real in all this?
How can the
Emotions I once
Thought unbreakable
Stop, and turn
To another?
It's quite simple,
Really.

Love, love, dear,
Endangered love.
It is not true
Or pure as I once
Thought, it is
The tainted
And tattered
Remnants of a
Memory, lost to
Me, and all who
Breathe, gone
With the turning
Of the seasons,
And the beatings
Of my shattered
Heart.

Love? What is love?
Is it real?
I thought so.
But it isn't.
It's just a dream.
Love is dead.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Letum, in the year 433 AD.