A new romance is heating up
and brings with it a memory,
of one such love so long ago
that ended, without ending.

In the history of love there is
a place for those that refuse to end.
These always lie just underneath,
the smile that’s for another.

It cannot thrive and yet lives on.
In spite of distance and time that’s gone.
A touch remembered, a scent, a kiss
lingering, in spite of betrayals done

We step into the light that dawns
and try to forget the frightful nights of then,
and still we find that we hold dear
that memory, that also brings pain near.

Why do you suppose this is the case?
Is love a force that’s cannot die?
Perhaps we have to just believe
that we can love much more then one