Ours was perhaps not love,
the sort that demands proof,
fervour which naught can drown,
the passion that willingly lays down
itself for another's approval, no our own
was something written in much lighter tone.

Ours the keenness of separates
easily walking and talking together,
reaching for comfort from a kind hand
when hurts demanded an understanding,
yes ours was desire for friendship's corner,
of choices honoured and respect in full order.

Yet love was there, it grew
with care of each for each,
so in losing you, death too,
of a sort, took life from me.