My love for you started in bed
but it was not a red-
light district fling, rather it's been
a long affair of hearts umpteen,
a string of lovely pomegranates
(albeit of a few carates,
shelves all around and overhead,
and books - some read and some unread.
And now that the tenth valentine
is here - still no love quarantine
will be imposed on us - nor drugs
are needed: we're not bugs,
nor will develop a resistance!
We'll keep the happy coexistence
of crystals and of crocodiles,
of laughter and of smiles,
the scratching of the back,
the tat the pictures the knick- knack.
And all the mugs we've broken
and the few bad words we've spoken,
have been glued back together or forgotten.
Now like the duvet cover made of cotton
that keeps the feathers warmest during winter,
or the computer and the printer
that make our work together thereof! ? ! ? ) ,
if you keep looking after love
while I keep overseeing the joy,
we shall resemble hand and glove,
Chicago and Illinois,
we'll be Akbar and Jeff,
the stave and the clef,
the dinner and the chef,
the one who speaks and the one who's deaf,
or any pair that well withstood
the test of time and remained good.

So now you look for hunt and treasure
and find the trail of candy and pleasure.
And if you think it's all too gummy
it is because our love is yummy:
It feeds on itself, it is
and (as I said already) nothing else is.