The Problem with Love

The Problem With Love

"Will you love me forever?" I asked him one time.
"Forever," he said to me.
Me, being honest, believed in him.
Him? He was wild and free.
Free, he thought, to do whatever he wanted;
wanting was too much for me.
"Wanting" is "doing" with a little less action,
action's to exciting you see.
See, life is short, and I want to be loved.
"Loving," he told me, "is easy."
Easy enough to fall into doubt,
doubting you'll ever be free.