We so misjudge the obvious places,
Searching after our most empty spaces,
Running straight for the prettiest faces,
Fooling ourselves in meaningless chases.
Has anyone found Love where predicted?
Fantasies to which we’re addicted?
Love’s not how the romantics predicted,
Foolish poets who end up conflicted!
Love is not the salve of those in despair,
Crying till morning for what is not there,
Trying to swipe on some profile somewhere,
They buy what’s on sale, but buyer beware.
They love too free, expecting rejection,
Just to love who made them their selection,
Love of convenience with no connection—
Love ends and begins with introspection.
Love is not something you find if you try,
Focusing on just what pleases the eye.
If Love arrives, there’s but one reason why—
You happened to meet the right passer-by.
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