Some rite should mark the death of love,
some moment lovers declare love dead,
with ceremony, then take their leave
of one another with ritual graces.
There should be words the parsons read
with solemn sorrow on their faces
in chapels filled with candle light.
We’ll have to stumble as best we can
through awkward meetings in public places.
We have no comforting parting rite.
Love died between us, I don’t know when.
Your love for me was first to go,
then, some time, mine for you was gone;
no ritual marked the when and how.
["El amor pasa" is literally "love passes" in Spanish, but the phrase means "love happens."]
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