When did we care so much and love so little?

We complain too much about love; protest
that love is too difficult (that you broke
promises, that I never made;
that you always spoke your mind, and that I always wore sleeves,
long enough to cover my face, with my heart embroidered on them)
and object when objective(s)
and the object seems
too distant,

too silent, too indifferent, too much...
too little and too
late.

Our love is too small, maybe it is that when love should be
we, we are still you and I--need
to be subject to stress and strain
and weather rains so uncomfortable
out-growths of  love can take root;
instead we are too green to bend.

When did we, as people, care so much and love so little?