We were caught in feelings—like cake filling for the treat
of love; sweet at the centre, soft where it mattered most.
You once said, “treat me better, than all my past scars”
and I didn’t argue—because I knew my past had its fingerprints
on me. The past isn’t just memory… it’s a scar, and sometimes,
it feels like a quiet kind of self-harm we keep revisiting.
So we tried to date our love— date it, name it, count it;
for a while; four days, those four letters: L—O—V—E.
As if repetition could make it real, or make it last. We moved
to music— soft enough to feel, not just hear; you said, "walk
a mile in my shoes," and I wondered how far love really goes
before it starts overstepping.
We’d joke, push, pull— careless banter just to get the last say,
saying things we didn’t mean just to mean something.
Love sick— no urgency, but always an emergency. We told
ourselves we were made to compliment— not complete,
just mirror the missing parts. To others, it looked complicated;
to us, we complimented each other.
Some nights felt like washing dishes— a plate full of desires,
soaked in soap and second chances; bubbles rising, popping
one by one— like years we hadn’t lived yet. We promised not
to settle, even while standing still; wildfires in quiet rooms,
burning without smoke.
And in the dark— when love felt less like light, more like
searching— we’d sit in silence like an old couple on a bench,
two lovebirds of the same feather, perching through time.
I think that’s the ending I want— not perfect, not loud—
just something that stays… long enough to become a story
worth finishing.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 3:15 PM UTC
We were caught in feelings—like cake filling for the treat
of love; sweet at the centre, soft where it mattered most.
You once said, “treat me better, than all my past scars”
and I didn’t argue—because I knew my past had its fingerprints
on me. The past isn’t just memory… it’s a scar, and sometimes,
it feels like a quiet kind of self-harm we keep revisiting.
So we tried to date our love— date it, name it, count it;
for a while; four days, those four letters: L—O—V—E.
As if repetition could make it real, or make it last. We moved
to music— soft enough to feel, not just hear; you said, "walk
a mile in my shoes," and I wondered how far love really goes
before it starts overstepping.
We’d joke, push, pull— careless banter just to get the last say,
saying things we didn’t mean just to mean something.
Love sick— no urgency, but always an emergency. We told
ourselves we were made to compliment— not complete,
just mirror the missing parts. To others, it looked complicated;
to us, we complimented each other.
Some nights felt like washing dishes— a plate full of desires,
soaked in soap and second chances; bubbles rising, popping
one by one— like years we hadn’t lived yet. We promised not
to settle, even while standing still; wildfires in quiet rooms,
burning without smoke.
And in the dark— when love felt less like light, more like
searching— we’d sit in silence like an old couple on a bench,
two lovebirds of the same feather, perching through time.
I think that’s the ending I want— not perfect, not loud—
just something that stays… long enough to become a story
worth finishing.
A reflective love story about two people trying to make something real out of something fragile—navigating past scars, emotional missteps, and quiet intimacy, while holding onto the hope of a love that lasts long enough to become a story worth finishing.
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