New love tastes like fine Tuscan wine.
You roll it in your mouth gently,
Relishing the Oaken flavors,
The touch of the warm French sun,
Till the sweet grapes lift you to moods
You thought never really existed.
New love can be seen from afar:
It sits on you like a silk dress…
Embroidered, a lovely work of art;
New love is always a journey:
Every day in a brand new town,
Fraught with million possibilities.
Old love is a different kind of fish.
It tastes like a plain home-cooked meal:
Simple, but it warms and fills you up.
Old love is the frayed cotton dress
You wear when you set out to sleep.
It is soft and smells of happy days.
Old love is the purpose of your quests:
When you traveled, your roving feet
Were always leading you to this place…
The familiarity of the boring house,
The narrow walls ringing with laughter,
The need to never travel again.