Love poem

                                    

Love is a curious thing.

You can find it in the most unlikely

of places,

In a lonely florist shop on a New York

street where a boy stumbles over

a pot of forget-me-notes, trying

to sound knowledgeable about flowers,

In a coffee shop where glances are

stolen over the rims of conveniently-

slowly-sipped cappuccinos,

And on the edge of a fountain where

a love poem is written through

dreamy eyes.

Love likes to hide itself in 

unassuming spots,

The notes played from the violin of 

a man in the underground metro that

are inspired by his muse,

Orange Vespa's ridden together on

dusty roads,

or a small bookshop off the beaten

path brought to life by the

silhouette of two heads huddled

over a book.

Love can also lose itself sometimes

and I'm afraid I can't give you any

instance of this for a love lost

is a love gone forever.

But my love will always be right

here, where it belongs; in your eyes

your soul and between our holding

hands.