There is no substitute for a thing called love,

the maid to clean, the chef to cook,

The glass of wine that calms the nerves,

The house that’s swish, the fashionista look.

 

We build our days with shining things,

With lists and plans, so desperate to win,

but somewhere quiet, our spirit sings,

A softer call from deep within.

 

We scroll, we buy, we chase, we show,

We fill the hours to hide the ache.

And yet the heart, poor broken thing,

Looks for reality, not an emotional fake.

 

For laughter shared without a mask,

For arms that hold us when worlds fall apart, 

For being known for who we are,

To love, just for love’s own art

 

No comfort, thrill, or grand design,

Can take the place of what we crave.

To look at one another kindly,

To give, and trust, you must be brave.

 

There is no substitute for a thing called love,

Not all the world, or sky so far above.

For only love can make us real,

and teach us how to truly feel.