Idea of love
is ideal.
Ideal love is
the idea.
Under a pillow
in hidden face
without lights
it works.
Rays of sun
washes them,
in a moonlit night
intrude temporarily,
disappears again
in the darkness,
the same idea of
the ideal love.
Sometimes again
in the brightest noon,
love faces me
as his jokes.
And secretive smiles
signed by dimpled cheeks
me-
Lost again in
the idea of love.
In the saddest evening
amidst of reading
a grave face
faces me and me
showering unusual joy
of love perhaps.
Unearthly unrecognaised.
The idea of love is
lovely uncertain and
unspotted, has no season
but all the reasons
for an ideal one.