It differs from lust,
Some fit together like a ship to the ocean,
More than a collision of desire.
It differs from lust.
Infatuation is its name,
Though it goes by another.
All the more intense,
All the more mundane.
Chemistry they call it,
Though just as physical as one’s own pulse.
A reaction that will reach its end,
No matter how one preens and tends.
Love is a concept,
Created by the naive
Who seek security in nothing more than fate.
Of course to say it does not exist is not to say one cannot be happy,
Only one does not need fairy-tales and nonsense to find it.
All the more sincerity in organic delerium
When not labelled as Divine.
The inevitable is far less devastating
When universal completion is honoured.
Rather than indulging in the idea that
Fate created Love created Forever.