Love

It occurred to me one Friday night
That love is not some script we write
Or a poem through which we can recite

What love might look like in our minds,
So neatly placed in stanzas and lines.
No such collection can ever define it.

And so you must forgive me, see,
For these last few lines that cannot be
Constrained within my poetry:

You know you're in love, not when you find someone who meets all your criteria for perfection, but when you meet someone who causes your whole definition of perfection to change.