Love

I write poems of love,

About it being painful, fickle.

But I love.

I love the dimple that forms when my best friend laughs,

The way my dad already knows what I want for dinner,

The random messages from my mom.

I complain about love much more than I should,

Yet love is forgiving,

It still makes me smile.

But I am flawed,

And may continue to complain about love tomorrow,

next week, even later today.

This poem...etched by my mindless thoughts,

Is my permanent reminder that love is generous.

And for that I am thankful.