Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

As I walk through the streets of Newark
on this christmas' eve
I see as the mayans did
a world plunged in calamity

For I see not lovebirds walking by
nor do I see the old men waving hi
where have all these good people gone?
does anyone else see anything wrong?

The stores, not decorated festively
but one wreath perched up high
as the TV screens buzz on
about ******, ****, and genocide

Is this what has become of christmas eve?
if so I truly do not believe
that there is any value in the holiday
well at least not anymore...

and it all might as well have ended
more than 3 days ago

honestly- mayans- am I too late?
was your doomsday prediction delayed?
a prophesy that we have yet to see
about how we shall destroy ourselves

we all jumped to assume that the end
shall come from some horrid outside force
this allowed us all to just pretend
that humans don't hurt humans- of course.

While there are no children in the streets
and they fear of what may come
from the horrid acts they have seen on TV
they say to Saint Nicholas,

"You ask to know my christmas gift- and I have but one"
"please make sure those who are hurting will get some"

and just as you mayans
came to destroy yourself
is that what we
shall come to do once again?


...
or is there hope?

Discordant
yet innately harmonious
a cacophony of noise
shrouding my body
the harsh
empowering light
battering from above

the oppressive
heat and humidity
caressing my body as I walk

Barefoot on the open gravel

Shouts are heard
from countless merchants
from the shops and bazaars
the honking of horns
the ringing of bells
from bikes
and motor rickshas

people bustle around
performing a dizzying range of tasks
yet all working
to a common goal
to survive

Yet amidst the chaos
Children run through the streets
weaving between countless giants
to sate their desire for fun
and exercise their fragile innocence

unmarred by the horrors of the world.

India...
A beautiful mess
of livelihood and dreams of success
a true cultural experience for the senses
While it may not seem the most appealing at first
I don't know how else to stress
an amazing experience for all who enter nonetheless

Sitting on the edge of the unknown
hand-in-hand staring at the sky
we whisper sweet nothings
and watch the celestial turbulence
for tonight,
even the stars are falling for you

As the beautiful leaves
upon high bristled trees
must fall as fall turn winter

we must, as time comes
fall over and die
but we shan't do it alone-

yes... together

for we must die
and while many years shall go by
until we must think of such things

we need not mourn this fate
this ominous end, this opening gate
for just being allowed to die

makes us lucky

for the number of people unborn
the acceptance of existence- torn
shadows any number we could see

more than the grains of sand
in the sahara, and
more than the fishes in the sea

and of those unborn ghosts
are greater poets, better hosts
better scientists, never to put on lab coats

when thinking of the billions  
that could be here replacing the millions
making our existences seem small and meek

against these stupefying odds
you and I, no scourge of the gods
in all our ordinariness

well we...

we are the lucky ones.

Exiled, banished,
Sent down from your throne in heavens gate
to the torrential dullness of earth
the mear morals around me would call this "paradise lost"
yet I refer to it as my paradise found

For were the angles to be banished to earth
what may one state the difference be?
If there be such beauty in this world as you-
heaven doth speak out of sheer vanity

as to call itself the epitome of prosperity?
and forth to label itself paradise

for as far as the mear mortal known as I
true paradise lay not in gates of pearl,

yet rather in your heart of gold

descending from heaven's height
to cover the world with your beauty and might
amongst others you may feel insignificant- meek
but remember always- *YOU ARE UNIQUE!

Elegant, Gorgeous,
yet deceitful, and burning with hate
she tempts one an all,
to dance before her world's entrance gate

an artist, a poet,
with but one greatest regret
for the art that she hath mastered
was one
that left her audience unable to applaud

Have  I ever told you- I still have your boutonniere?
Perched proudly upon my poetry books~
All of the memories of "Us" may have been stored-
hidden-
in a box solely for those memories
but that flower stands proudly,
untouched from the date- May 3rd

Fragile as it may be ( now dehydrated )
It remains a symbol of our love -
Filled with beauty, and fantasy-
but now dried out-
yet I still have it

Should I throw it away?
Forget and abandon it-
Or keep it as a memory?
and risk it growing on me
The longer it stays
the more questions arise...

Do you still have yours- Or is it gone forever?
*Do withered flowers lose their beauty?

Why do You tempt us so?
or attempt to tempt as I may say
to intrinsically covet us with your beauty?
your feinted image but puddle-rooted

waver as you may...

For is it every flower's duty?
to lure in weary enamored travelers
and be loved only by blinded wayfarers?
hence the expression stop and smell the roses-

no?

And yet You have come to be known
as the pinnacle of beauty and love
whilst You would know not of either
compassion, romance, and emotion...

more of a lack thereof..

for true beauty is not measured
by the magnificence of your flower
but is rather found  in beauty of your roots
the same can be said for love

*it requires but one to do the digging...

8 ½ by 11 pieces of paper,
College-ruled,
Empty.

That’s how it all started...
Empty-
Filled with possibility-

slowly, we added more
filling the paper together
with dreams-
ambitions-  
secrets-

Letters sent back and forth
professing our love
dreaming for the future,

and creating lists-
lists.

lists of the future-
lists of our dreams together-
lists of future plans and happy things-

and as we listed our lives,
we forgot to live them.

we listed romantic dreams
until romance became a dream-

we listed happy things-
until we had none between us..

and then we realized…
that our little page was filled

there was no room for us...

I keep those lists,
in my book,
with me at all times
hidden from the world-

hoping that one day
we may still make those dreams we once dreamed
come true-
knowing we won’t -
the pages aren’t empty-
But I sure am-

an empty shell of my existence
a blank piece of 8 ½ by 11 paper-
All I have is
the list of our future plans and happy little things

our list-

I think it’s time to make a new one-


but **** if I won't keep trying
to one day make those lists
mean something again-

*Who knew... it takes longer to move on than it does to fall in love.