When I was younger
I long for a romantic love that would
sweep me off my feet.
I was so in love with love.
I was in love with the moon.
I was in love with the longing.
I was in love with the romance.
I kept on thinking about
the kind of love I would give out.
I wrote hundreds of poetic words,
so I can practice how to be in love.
To me, love is an ideal.
A utopia, an ecstasy.
And then I fell in love for the first time and got my heart broken. Shattered.
I was in an illusion of love that allowed my heart to be broken to pieces for it to understand the meaning of love.
I was my own heart saboteur.
It took me a decade after that to fall in love again.
And fell I did.
This time, love to me was intense and real.
It was so intense that I would wail nonstop to not be left alone.
It was so real that I would do anything to make someone else happy.
But this love taught me consciousness.
This love taught me all the things I didn’t know about myself and my life.
This love taught me to take care of another person.
This love taught me to take care of my own self.
This love taught me how to prioritise.
This love taught me the limit to selflessness.
This love taught me the most important thing – that loving someone “so much” means different from one person to another.
All the clichés are true.
All the love songs sound cheesy.
Every romantic gestures receives no praises.
But weirdly, I love this person so much still, and forever.
I guess, in the end,
Love is just a four letter word.
In an entire dictionary of life together.