We think of love
As two people in a perfect state,
Kissing, no trace of hate,
But, in truth, love is squabbling,
Measurement and judging, a heightened tension,
So that a stranger, secretly overhearing
Two in love, can only gasp: “Is this love?
It seems more like hate on the verge of war.”
Do you remember us? Content, yet not content?
Our love was such we could not handle more.
It was love, yes, and for that very reason
Not at all like love; it was like childhood,
Celebrated by mad Romantic poets—
Such intensity, both bad, and good,
The answer, finally, is the child,
So committed to itself, so obnoxiously perfect and wild,
God’s answer, finally, is for the child to grow up—
We loved to such a degree we judged until we were sore.
What happened? Like a beautiful child, we changed—
Oh God! Was that what our love was for?
We grew up—and were no more.