Old Trinket To Compare

Love is like a trinket
It is worshiped and held near
But only a few have patience
To care when it disappears

Eventually you forget
What store you had first bought it
And the sentimental value
Becomes ridged and robotic

You put it in your pouch
For the reason that its valued
You'll forget why you love it
So other people have to tell you

“You love it because you've had it
For weeks on months on years
You love it because it's yours”
No, You love it because it's here.

One day you'll place it in your bag
Simply out of muscle movement
It will slip out of the open flap
The trinket cracked with bruises

So you’ll pick it off the ground
And not even recognize where
Or how or who and what's the point?
Why should you even care?