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.
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