Riddle

It comes when not needed,
And flees when it is,
Makes a grand entrance,
Then leaves with a kiss,

It starts off simple,
Then quickly unfolds,
It’s the worst thing to happen,
To some, I’ve been told.

It is either the wind,
That allows you to soar,
Or the hunger inside you,
That begs you for more,

The light of your life,
Or darkness of death,
But nevertheless,
You won’t soon forget,

It flies like a butterfly,
Stings like a shot,
Leaves when you beckon it,
More often than not

Of course by now you’re wondering,
Just what I’m speaking of,
And mournfully I answer:
The monster we call love.