I Wonder Of Love

In all my topics of love and love lost, of heartbreak and despair, I have actually yet to feel the real emotions behind those words I find so enthralling that I imagine I know them; like a painter knowing its masterpiece even before he makes it. I only know of love in the varied books and quotations I purge in, in the whispered endearments of my friends to their lovers and consequently of their heated arguments; every bit of love surrounding me I inhale so deeply that I almost feel it thrum inside me. In all of my lackadaisical ponderings and wishful thinking of the romance that is yet to come to me, I never really noticed that my friends were starting to worry about me. Twenty-one is an early age, I say. Too early for the romance that I wish I could have. Twenty-one is the right age to start getting to know your likes and dislikes, they say, and I look at them with wonder. Of course it is of no shock to me that they’d tell me that knowing that they have had various boyfriends over the course of their teenage years, and maybe they just want me to learn early so I wouldn’t be too hard on myself when I finally meet the guy I would like to spend my days with, but the point is, is it really alright for me to go on dates with guys that shows no interest to me and I to him? And am I not too young for romance? I admit I feel the urge sometime, the desire to belong to someone in ways that makes a person feel good, the wanting to be in to the greatest secret in the universe. How doe it feel like to know that no matter how hard your day will be, there’d always be that person who’s willing to change it all for you? To go out without worrying you’d have no one to accompany you, to sleep with the knowledge that you are loved. These things, they make me want to give in sometimes, but I feel like love should be this great one-of-a-kind thing and I am willing to spend a little more time alone if only for the knowledge that I am already romantacizing the great romance that is yet to come to me.

Love Like a Fool

You make me a fool for loving you; the way you mark me with words, carving crevices deep into my buried heart of stone. The way you own me by burrowing under my skin, deep into the soul I never thought would feel love at all. Being a fool for you is all worth it.

Because She Was Gone

He was walking aimlessly; I walk an empty street, on the boulevard of broken dreams goes his background music inside his head. It was on replay, that particular sentence to be exact, since he found it fitting for his situation. He was traversing the road where it all began and although it wasn’t empty like the song, he sure did feel like one as the memories go by and the dreams slowly shatter to pieces. I was supposed to make it all work out this time, he thought with regretful reminiscence of what passed as the best connection he ever felt with another human. The wind blew, a scent of Jovān White Musk wifting pass his nostrils and he came to a halt. He knew that smell well- the scent he has been waking up to for three years of his life, the one that has always made him smile and reach across the bed towards its owner and yet, he couldn’t quite look up and search for the person wearing that scent now. Someone cleared her throat and his knees trembled; he knew that throat-clearing like his own, catching his attention whenever he drifts off to where his mind automatically shuts down to and dumbly focuses on a certain part of her- her lashes long enough to cause envy to all women, her lips plump and red as cherries, her nose that challenged the right-angled ruler; she was a goddess sent to give him absolution and yet, he lost her. And now here she was, clearing her throat, wanting his attention when he was afraid it was all just a dream.
“How are you?” She asked, and he heard the uncertainty behind her voice, as if she was not quite sure what she was doing. How could she have graced him her presence once more when he doesn’t deserve it?
“Um,” she paused, unsure, waiting. “Er, it’ll be Amma’s birthday on the 20th and you know how much she adores you…” she trailed off, and that action was painful enough, like she was even unsure if her Amma really did adore him, that he raised his head and looked her in the eyes. She was looking at him with uncertainty clear on her eyes, possibly worry, or doubt, or anxiety mixing up the hues of her bright greenish-blue iris. She looked like she wanted to run away from him as fast as she can, but also she looked like she wanted to reach out and ask him what was wrong. And that would be the stupidest question she would’ve asked because right now, everything was wrong.
“Are you-” pause. “Will you come to Amma’s birthday? Please? For Amma?”
And he looked at her with increasing intensity, trying to imprint her face in his mind, as unworthy as he is to be graced her presence. He didn’t answer her question; he couldn’t waste a single nanosecond when he knew this might possibly be the last time he has to look at her. Even when she grew uneasy to his scrutiny, he didn’t waver. He looked at her as she waited for an answer, and looked at her when he fidgeted on her toes, uneasy, and looked at her more when she smiled awkwardly for the last time, and looked at her last when she turned and retreated, her silhouette vanishing, mingling with the bodies busily roaming the streets. That’s when his voice broke through, a whisper-sob that escaped his unworthy lips and he murmured I’m sorry.