Love can be obsessive—and kind,
Love can be mad—and sweet.
Love can kiss you in secret,
Stealing through reeds on secret feet.
Love can be guilty of wanting love.
Or did you make mention of love
Because you hardly wanted love?
Sighing by the river, I saw her,
Feet nearly wet; her sighs
Were not supposed to be heard, or
Did I hear them? I couldn’t see her eyes,
Covered by her lovely lashes
As she bent her neck and looked down.
Who made those mysterious splashes?
Will she look up and frown?
Yes, I wanted you madly,
And yes, today I still do.
Have you heard of this? It’s called love.
I’m kind. And obsessed with you.