Love is cursive handwriting and stacking bricks.
I thought love was birdsong, and it is, but a mirror.
Love builds empires and starts countless wars.
It finds footing on ice skates, and it agonizes so deeply.
You can duly cry out in joy and sob in anguish.
Love waits at the bus stop patiently,
and sometimes it leaves without even
a glance backwards or a small wave goodbye.
Other times it stays even when you beg it to leave.
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