We fall in love on the roll of a dice,
A chance meeting. Chancing everything on a meeting.
As we plain and seductive creatures
Remain wilfully unaware of the power of our own deep seduction.
For it is we who snap the bolt shut on death and boredom.
So we are always ready to catch some lovely confection
In some other plain beauty. Some sweetness that draws us in
Until we are in so deep, all that is left is for us to declare
That this is the love which will last for ever,
Outliving any grain of sand or petal of a fading flower.
This love cuts out temptation. Ends the pull of new desire,
Deletes that relentless ache for someone new.
We make promises quiet as silk slipping over moonlight.
We will love to the end of time, or, at the very least,
We hastily prevaricate, until the end of its own time.
We offer promises aloud, tying them up with a gold ring
Or two. Often, two. Or with the ringpull of a thin tin can.
But gold or tin, nothing can lock up temptation.
Nothing stop that sudden surge of desire
For a tantalizing possibility inevitably leading to a sorry ending,
Or to a new and bitter beginning.
Nothing, that is, but love, which, as we fully understand,
Happens on the throw of a dice.
©2020 Gwen Grant