Our Love Will End in Ice

Tell me how love grows cold.

Is it an inherent numbness, an
applied entropy?
Do the atrophitic limbs
fail always by
the day?

There have never been answers
for this question, just
similies:
love is like
good music: one only
know it when one sees it.

But deeper, love is a seed,
and its own fruit,
the irony being a
labouriously exquisite
beginning,
a nuturing and teasing upward,

to find that love begets
love begets love.

It is much like rainfall.

I will tell you how love
grows cold: rote and ritual,
forgotten moments and flippant meaning,
a paycheque and a perfomance,

an apathetic evening,
and eventual annonymity.