02/08/2023
When Love is Not
a poem by rose a. villaruz
When love is not madness,
It is not love.
When love does not blow the mind away,
It is not love.
When love does not bring out the sparks,
It is not love.
When sounds of crickets and toads don't seem like music to the ear after the rain,
It is not love.
When fireflies gather and visit your yard but you seem not to notice,
It is not love.
When that kind of look, a stare, or a glance do not give you the goosebumps,
It is not love.
When even a smile given, meant only for you in a crowd but failed to notice,
It is not love.
When you were singled out from a room full of best dressed ladies waiting to be asked for a dance, yet did not recognized it,
It is not love.
When a brief touch or a hand extended to aid does not send you that thrill,
It is not love.
When an honest whisper to take care, does not make you want to crawl in a flurry of warmth,
It is not love.
When stars so bright, out in a clear sky does not make you wish to be alone with that someone,
It is not love.
When desire runs high ready to take and be part of another soul but took it for granted,
It is not love.
What then is this mystery called love?
It is love, when madness abated, you remain level headed.
It is love, though the mind blewn away, take its stand to be upright and morally correct.
It is love, when those sparks
brought about in haste, solidify in firm appreciation of true candor.
It is love, when after every rainfall, music heard do not come from only the sound of crickets and toads, but even found from the scent of rain.
It is love, when in one's yard, the fireflies dance in harmony with all that surrounds including you.
It is love, when a stare or distinctive look was cast on you and not only goosebumps it sent, but a thousand thrill.
It is love, when in a crowd, a smile given was not only for one to recognize it but sincerely meant exclusively for you.
It is love, when all those well dressed ladies waited in despair for a dance, with that special gen
