Love isn’t the fable to call for truth where lies none,

Nor is it the expectation that your partner will always be your fun.

It is not flattery, denial or the need for perfection,

It’s to find the underlying pattern in organised sections.

Love is to hold their flawed gaze

and not ever think to deviate away.

It is to firmly grasp their tense hands,

above imperfection of where it stands.

In all saying, true love roots from pure integrity,

But to not present it as though a blade.

Instead to wrap it by the discernment,

Of a wistful youngin that has greyed.