I looked for love,

In high language novels read by men who always dress in plaid shirts, big glasses, and intellectual endeavors.

In independent films with moody pianists for protagonists, or extravagant detectives, or mad prophets.

In the disappointments of post-12 AM conversations with strangers smoking outside an underground theater.



I looked for love,

In old photographs with brown spots, and wrinkled covers of vinyl records.

In candles with mysteriously inviting names, like “white musk” and “black forest".

In dictionaries that show how nostalgia and exoticism are alike: a type of longing that turns the beloved into a painting so expensive that it’s never on display.



I looked for love,

In between the lines, and tucked into metaphors.

In the closet where I used to hide as a child whenever I played hide and seek.

In everywhere except for the coffee shop in plain sight where a 23 year old goes to have coffee, and write about how love is nowhere to be found.