Love is not a bowl of oranges.
Its fruits are devoured quickly.
A race against the spoiling sun.
The bowl is left behind.
Empty.
Love is an orange tree.
Its fruits are cherished,
Handled delicately
Leaving only few with bruises.
Collected conservatively
Leaving none to spoil in the sun.
In time, with rich nourishment
Plenty of water, and diligent care
The tree will yield great fruit
To be devoured or savored
As often as you please.
Love is not the fruit. Love is how the fruit is made.