Three clothespins hanging from a rope,
sheets floating in the air,
scenting like hand-washed soap.
A warm plate on the table,
with the promise of refills,
of food that warms the soul.
A cane resting against the wall,
after a hard walk,
tired of such a long life.
A few wrinkles on the smile,
of war, immigration, and hope,
with much unconditional love.

I could say I have a romantic heart,
but the mind is the romantic one.
It's the one that's infatuated with a kiss,
with walking hand in hand,
dreams of candlelight.
My heart only knows how to love,
it loves calmly,
it loves everyone.
My mind is like a capricious child,
it shakes shelves,
it cries, it seeks you.
While my heart awaits the genuine,
the divine.

I tried to define love,
but I couldn't come to an agreement.

Every heart has its own interpretation,
and I only came to one conclusion.

Love doesn't need to exist;
love endures throughout time.

How many times have I loved a memory,
and many times, only future ones.

How many times have I loved ideals,
how many times have I loved memories.

I have loved restlessness,
I have loved artificially.

I have loved without being loved,
how many times have I been loved without being able to love.

Sometimes I didn't love myself,
and at other times, I loved myself more than anyone.

How many times have I loved an imaginary person,
how many times have I loved no one.

How difficult it is to rationalize love.