Where does love hide?
In the fragance of roses?
Shall we find it, solely,
Amidst the gazes of lovers?
Does it bear any marks?
Is any ever-lasting?
Do we know of it only,
Through our own longing?
Thankfully, glamour does wear off.
Flowers are now watered, not bought.
Passion is now patience. Tryst, routine.
Seems, then, wise Therese was right:
Where does Love hide?
Among the pots, among the pans.