Heirlooms

She told me, once, that there was a time to love.
That love was a path with twists and turns,
Climbing, descending.
Hidden, or half-formed.
There were times love came to a halt,
Times it came to nought:
A journey wasted,
Nothing shared, nothing gained.
There were times, she counselled, when love would crush,
Would leave you desolated,
Isolated like a lone house on a vast empty plain.
And there were times love lifted you,
Drifting you along,
Feeling heady, feeling like you could love and live forever.
Love, she said, moulded memories
Stored away, waiting to be dusted down,
Cherished once more.
But sometimes, she told me, those memories crumbled,
Or rotted away.
Or were abandoned, like forgotten heirlooms.
The heart can also forget, she cautioned.
Though it does beat on.
I loved, she said.
But afterwards, I told myself, never again.