Cultures Of Love

I know my type, it's always the same.

The picture's repeats, inside of my frame.

I've framed out the image of who it will be.

The stereotypical type just for me.

Is it love that I'm seeking? I question my heart.

Or is it dictated by my cultural start?

My family had told me to stick with my kind.

From there, I'd be safe, true love I would find.

Till that one day that he came and knocked on my door.

I was nervous and startled as I ran cross the floor.

I revealed the person behind the blind date.

He was older and darker and running a bit late.

His accent was strong, would we understand each other?

Would I ever be able to present him to my mother?

We started out slow, just friends we agreed.

The two years of friendship blossomed into a need.

The need to be together for the rest of our life,

No one else mattered when he made me his wife.

The friendship and love that we share both together,

Supassed all the trials that the two of us weathered.

Nothing else mattered but the love that we shared,

Not race, nor time, just the risk that we dared.