Love left me this afternoon at two,

and there is nothing I can do.

He just decided it wasn’t right,

said all we ever did was fight.

What I remember:

Passion in late September,

A quick bitter quarrel in May,

with phrases we shouldn’t say.

Making up with kisses, caresses;

aid through small distresses.

Roses bloomed from his hand;

June brought a shiny gold band.

August heat spurred temperaments,

everything lost sentiments.

Something went missing from his eyes,

there were so many new lies.

I tried too hard for his attention —

she was not my invention.

Love left me this afternoon at two,

and there is nothing I will do.