I picked up a pencil
the familiar woody scent
the tip sharp and blunt
just right.

I took out my sketch pad
the surface of the slightly yellow parchment
smooth and rough
just right.

I held the 2B pencil
(a gift with my name imprinted on it)
focused my mind on the subject
took a small shaky breath
and glided the graphite over paper.

A line was drawn.
It stood out in the middle of the paper
like how the bride stood out to the groom amongst the rest of the women on earth on the wedding day
like how a bloodstain stood out on the walls of a sterile hospital ward
like how I stood out from the crowd
like how you stood out from the crowd.

"Love“: A feeling defined time and time again till no one is quite sure what it really means.

Yet, when you who stood out from the crowd looked at me
just right
I knew right then and there
I am the sketch pad
and you are the pencil
and the line drawn over my chest is not a straight one.
It is a series of ups and downs soaring to the sky and
plunging deep into the ground and repeating that cycle till the last breath escapes my mouth.
It is the pulse I see and feel
the pulse in my blood and in the air
which I will soon define it as “Love“.