I'll never understand this thing called love.
It's like temporary insanity,
Or the pinnacle of inanity,
A puzzle that I'm always wary of.
Love's habits fit us closer than a glove;
Its presence trumpets our humanity,
Overcoming selfishness and vanity,
But makes us foolish as a turtledove.
Maybe love's just a dream that we create,
A fragile equilibrium we build
to end confusion over want and need.
When we're in love, we hold our breath and wait,
With hope our heart's desire will be fulfilled;
If true, that dream should be our only creed.