In me by Adam Parry

There is love.
Like in the knock on 
                              the door,
or the letter
                waiting to be 
read.
There is love.
But sometimes we
                            forget.
Give into hate
die a little.
There is love.
And it comes and goes
                                   illogical, invisible.
Where it goes no-one knows.
There 
         is 
            love.