'What's love? ' she asks, and I reply:
by Robert Melliard
'This strong, pure admiration
that I feel for you inside.'
'And why does love exist? '
'To make life bearable, ' I say,
'and compensate for grief and pain.'
'But when does it take place,
and where? ' she wants to know.
'Each time I glance at you, ' I answer
'and everywhere I look, from head to toe.'
She seems quite happy with these words,
romantic as they try to be; but then
I sense that something isn't right:
if this sentiment were mutual,
she'd know what love was like!