Young love has, beneath its lusts

And summer nights its own warts

To hide.

Weeks turn to months that turn

To years that turn to

Mortgages and 2.5 kids.

Young love sputters, sprouts gray hairs

And moves more slowly, a

River birch in autumn trading

Multi-colored leaves for


In between glasses of wine

He might say to her

“remember when”

As if she hasn’t heard it before.

Young love fades, becomes brittle-

Fighting moths from

The back of the closet.

Separately they acknowledge

Teenage lovers from decades before

Where young love was born.

Now it crouches in the woods, cold

And alone, waiting for the

Search party to come and rescue.