If love is everything, then I have nothing; my cupboards are full of dust and cobwebs.

If love is wholesome, then I am empty; my beach has neither shells nor crabs with the
sand is rough, rocky, and warm.

If love is real, then I am fake; my imagination replaces solid reality.

If love is out there, then I am lost; my map in this tangled jungle has done me no good,

where the wild creatures cuddle with one another, taunting me.

If love is like a diamond, then I am not precious; my sparkling crown is on another’s

head.

If love is alive, then I am dead; buried beneath the snowy grass near a bare tree.

And if love suddenly meets me at the coffee shop counter, then all I have to do is smile

and shake it’s hand, staring into those bohemian blazing blue eyes.