It is easy to be in love in a poem because the object of your affection does not snore
or have bad breath, or for that matter, any of the myriad little things that annoy the hell
out of you. It is easy to be in love in real life too, because even if it happens that Romeo
or Juliet of yours farts at the table during a romantic date, the hormonal cocktail flooding
your brain will make you see nothing but that cute blush of embarrassment. But the same
blush twenty years later, if it happens at all, will test your patience one too many times.
Funny thing—love—a tipsy bookkeeper on leave.