is a strange thing.
It can blossom into the flower of love,
or it can strangle one like a weed.
Think . . .
how often we mistake infatuation for love,
by a gesture, or by a spoken word . . .
by wanting to believe that it is something more.
And when it burns itself to embers and ashes,
rather than judge each other,
blame each other for the end . . .
We should accept its presence
and learn that not all things,
not all feelings must be love.
This . . .
is when it is best to open ourselves
to friendship rather than to close our minds
to each other.
Turning away . . . is a coward's way out.
Blaming, finding fault only intensifies its end.
So, perhaps we should grasp the thread of friendship
that was the root of all the madness and maybe,
just maybe,
those feelings of friendship will
grow and become
one hundred times
more pleasurable than
the infatuation
that was.
