I know what it is about love that makes it so ethereal. A sense of passion that doesn’t quite judge boundaries, a casual smile or a hard kiss – like you really mean it. And really mean it.
Through days of hunger or shame, it’s the only feeling that stays rooted like a virus, feeding you through its sweet venomous fangs. It’s the only emotion that goes past time, memories, history, economics and sociology.
It’s the only concept that makes you quiver, simply at the thought of it. And while you take out the trash or put the dryer on spin, you break into a shy smile, even when no one is watching. You can think of him, standing in a queue and touch him in your head and visualise the spot near his mouth, the one you’d often miss when you’re with him.
You’d mean it – every bit of it.
And when you fight, throw things at each other and call names that you had sworn yourself off, you’d still love with an aching heart. You’d want to, in the middle of the most ridiculous argument, want to break up and never see his face ever again. And you’d probably walk away because you’re done.
And then, after much water has passed under the bridge, the feeling will rekindle itself – rise from the ashes, just like the phoenix, lick your wounds and plant new feelings in your heart. Just that, they won’t be new – you’ve known them all along, you’ve wanted it. Deeply. Incessantly.
You’ve wanted to tear through the lines of division just to see him smile; even if it were for the last time. And of course, the one kiss.
