Love is in the shadow of beauty,
We fall in love like a crystal droplet falls from the sky into the ocean
Or like a paper airplane drifts through the empty air.
We fall in love with ideas
Or the thought of the idea. (Or a heart of hearts.)

We fall in love so often that it should not be called
Fate, but rather a condition of circumstance.
We fall out of love as often as we fall into it,
And it is rather odd we deem some worthy of the name heartbreak and others so low as to forget within the moment we grow out of it. Like a discarded doll. (Or a broken vase.)

Love is a strange thing to us, so
Human of us to love and to not.
To fix and to break is pleasure to us all the same
(As we like life.) The good with the bad, or not at all and never apart.

Love is a peculiar thing,
an early bud of may, so
Daint and fragile so beautiful and wonderous so temperate and wild
(Like the sun.)

Only a fool would prefer the empty shadows to the lights of summer.
The scorching broiling rays and the glimmering sparkle of it, all the same,
but never apart.
Because how could anyone
(In any world or with any heart)
live without a sun?