There are always those times. 

The pink sugar days of promise.

When love is a chemical dance,

each performer, an unknowing novice. 

She adores his Boston accent, 

the way he says “commonah”. 

He loves how she sees walking and dancing 

as interchangeable phenomena.

Mornings stretch long, lounging in bed,

laughing at droll headlines.

Flower Elected Mayor, Squirrel Masters Physics.

Staring at the ruby and how the red shines. 

He’d given her that ring,

surprised her with a picnic in the wild.

Food seemingly prepped by a toddler, 

or a very young child. 

She’d smiled kindly at his attempt,

certain he’d improve with practice.

But to smile today is Herculean,

as she’s grown rather fractious. 

They’re now the cartographers

of each other’s terrain.

Astute at devising 

the most direct routes to pain.

He delights in the activities 

that only wear on her.

She reminds him of his failures

with almost no surrender.

And it’s safe to say they’ve moved

from novice to skilled dancer. 

Neither holding the slightest notion 

that love is the answer.