Could This Be Love?

          Could This Be Love?

I thought I knew what love is;

I had seen the plays, watched the movies,

read the books and scanned the ads.

I knew exactly what to expect

but then I met you

and you’re not like that at all;

you’re no more like the image of love

than day is like night, or truth is like lies

or home is like exile.

I thought love was night

and love was lies, and love was exile

and so, defeated, I returned home

and there I found you.

Could this be love?

I thought I knew what love is;

I knew exactly what it looked like.

Love was just the right height,

and just the right weight,

and just the right face,

and just the right figure,

and just the right clothes;

and love turned heads and started fights

and love starred in movies and magazines

and love sold cars and beer

and love was to see and not to touch

and love was way too beautiful for me

and then I met you

and you’re not like that at all.

You’re no more glamorous than I am.

No corporation would pay a cent for your picture.

Directors, pimps and admen would ignore you.

Photographers wouldn’t even look at you, but I would.

I see you without anguish, only comfort.

I see you without desire, only satisfaction.

I see you without longing, only happiness.

Neither page nor screen stands between us.

You don’t look like the impossible dream;

you look like everyday life.

Could this be love?

I thought I knew what love is;

I thought love is perfect.

I thought love never argued

except at the top of its voice.

I thought love is all-forgiving

all-accepting, all-delighting,

and especially all-agreeing,

except when pushed too far

and then love is all-destroying.

I thought love is for extremes;

for ecstacy and agony, comedy and tragedy,

rescue and murder, salvation and damnation,

immortal verse and mortal combat.

I thought love an absolute, like death

and therefore not for me

but then I met you

and you’re not like that at all.

You aren’t perfect; you aren’t impossible;

you’re all too real. So am I.

You keep flubbing your lines. So do I.

Like me you muddle through.

Shakespeare would reject us;

we’re not dramatic enough.

I’d rather live with you than die for you,

and you’d rather be a relative than an absolute.

Our lives together make more sense than story.

Could this be love?

I thought I knew what love is;

glamor, enchantment, mystery,

danger, disaster and death.

I thought love is illusion,

and suffering, and insanity,

and then I met you

and you’re not like that at all.

With you I am plain, with you I am clear,

with you I am myself again.

I thought love was incense and saffron

sugar, spice, and salt

symphonic music and rainbow visions

so that smell, taste, hearing and sight

all be blocked, all deluded, all at once;

but you’re not like that at all.

You are like the taste of water,

the smell of sky after rain,

the silence of lazy afternoons,

and the color of clean air.

I thought love would take me away

and love would drive me mad

but you bring me back,

and you make me sane,

and frankly, my dear,

(sweetheart, best friend)

I am rather fond of you.

Could this be love?