It does not take a poet to explain — especially,
on this the day of flowers and chocolates —
love is momentous.

(The world groans its agreement
and carries on.)

What this poet wrote and meant, emphatically:
love is momentum.
Thoughtless indifference
until a gentle slope gives speed
to what internal fixtures we forgot may move.

If the magazine could please republish this less-trite truism,
I am sure your readers would rejoice in its novelty.
Nod over their coffees
at their loves, growing, even now, in force
or slowing,
equally
imperceptibly,
until we are alone
in the resultant stillness
of erstwhile impetus.