It has become impossible -
to be optimistic, about love.

Each day goes down as the last.
Each night is as cold as the next.
Each venture collapses as the last.
There is no sustainable pleasure,
no sense.

Love has become a cynical public display.
It's not the love I grew up desiring from what I heard from poets.
It's not the love I grew up to treasure and search for.
This love is materialistic; a show off.
This is madness, not love.

This love is for puppets.
It's for two soulless individuals; figurines.
This love has no meaning;
no romance;
no affection.
This love is not for me.

The love I desire would never be completed -
if it were to be written.
But I will - someday,
write that love, and carve it with my lips;
on her, who will wake up beside me;
each morning;
and lay beside me, each evening.