The Marketplace in Old Algiers
Love never really dies.
It just tend to slip through
Your fingers like sand
To collect on the floor.
And it stays there
Just out of reach,
But close enough so
That it can tickle your toes
With the occasional memory
Of fingers through your hair
And your hand around a hip.
No love doesn't die
But it does go out for walks
From time to time,
And try as we may
We will never be able
To go adventuring with it,
Because to be in love is
To be content,
Not with where you are in the world
But with who you are
And who is with you.
Our adventures are made
In that small shimmer of light
In our eyes when they meet.
Then suddenly our view in
Our no name city in someplace USA
Surpasses the Sistine chapel in beauty
And Saint peters in grandeur.
So when love does leave us—
In a cold empty home—
We will grab some blankets
And light a fire.
So when she does come back,
(As she always does,
Because the marketplace in old Algiers
And the hot Egyptian sun
Never could compare to a warm fire
And homely dinner)
We will be ready and waiting
To hear the tales of her adventures,
And to welcome her warmth
Back into our patient hearts.
Photo Credit: Sarah_Loetscher