A Woman's Love

If I could love you like I loved you

when we were young and unaware that

things age and mature, and become dull

and lifeless, that life ages and matures and 

becomes dull and lifeless,

I would. I would.

I wish that I could give you that effortless smile,

the one that I see Hollywood actresses flash

to males undeserving of their happiness

as they're not delicate enough to cherish

a woman's happiness, a woman's blinding and 

million reasons smile,

a woman's predicament over how to love somebody

that used to be so easy to love.

Had I been told that I would not be your youthful 

sweetheart forever, I'm not fully convinced I would

have taken on the job. I commit to things for life

and I'm struggling to commit to love even though 

I can see the pain in your eyes as I push you away

and tease you as if we were children.

Except we're not.

Are we?

Love is so much easier when you cannot understand it,

recognise the life sentence that is love, recognise that love

embeds itself within you, never to leave, only to gently ebb away into

somebody else when you think you have found

somebody worth ebbing yourself into until

you are completely empty and suddenly those warm July days

have passed and I am sitting in the cold in December whilst you

are swimming through June for July.

You are not selfish. Oh dear, no.

You don't get it, dear. A woman's love is

complicated. A young girl's love is

complicated. The love I ebbed into you as a 

young girl is a different love to the love I am 

forcing into you as a woman.

I want to love you like a young girl once loved a

young you.

I want to be youthful again.

Because I didn't know what love was.

And I didn't know who I was.

Only everything I wanted to be and 

everything we would be.

I want us to be July.

But we are December.

And it's too cold for me to swim along.

You'll know a woman's love one day.

Just leave me, just leave me

to grow old enough.