Mundane

                                                                       

Love is not timeless.

It has its limits.

Sometimes it withers, sometimes it dies.

 

Slowly, it grows old.

What remains there is habit,

 its fierceness and intensity long gone;

something mundane.

 

Mundane like filling your coffee in the morning

like brushing your hair away from your face

and tucking it behind your ear.

Like hanging your keys in the same place,

putting on the same shoes.

 

Mundane like returning to your garden each morning

and watering your lilies

so it doesn’t wither, so it doesn’t die.