Love exists inside a memory
It's strongest grip clings to the past
Like an old bicycle or shirt
It's grip is tightest to things that never last

I fight with this realization
For if it's true, who can I love?
Truly not anyone who is.
But only the memory of someone who was

Even thinking back
On the things that now give me a certain zeal
At the time when they were present
The love I had, I did not feel

Although, I feel I give out love
I question its meaning all the time
As abstract as it is ofcourse
Its limit I cannot find

Which brings me to the question
Can we love and cherish something that we hold
If not, I guess we suffer
All through life until we're old