Love is not patient. It is a shriek.
An animal war cry hurled howling against honest probability
Equal parts pride & terror,
       want & revulsion
Forgive me this: the tiredest idea
But it is wood rot, deep in the rings of the tallest of trees
It is a wounded battleship; listing fast, but guns all bristling ardor
Love is the wounded lion. Never more dangerous

Love is not kind. It is a truncheon.
Its wide and swinging arc approaching zenith--
--something between a dull thud & sickening crack.
It is blood and tears and bruises that heal but all too slow.
It is equal parts attack and wound.
It is a wanton warlord, whistling as it slays.
Love is the prowling antagonist in each our bloodstained hearts

Love wants. Absolutely!
You shittin' me?
All Love does is wanting.
& grasp & claw & claim & take & pry
It is the swelling famine spirit, devouring, in the end, even itself

Love boasts. COME ON, now.
It is every aggrandizing lie, that ever
     seeped
          rolled
                dripped
                      spilled or boiled
from my forked & putrid tongue.
It girds itself in the armor of its own unearned self-assurance.
It carries the aegis of the ever-ready, the always-argument;
self-insistent.
It is the drunk friend you thought you had, in the kitchen.
Wine stained kisses.

And I place myself beneath it still?
It is a villain, a liar, a wailing brat.
Love is a predator, shadowed claws.
It is too much.

I caught the deep inky blue of it
in bottles
labeled 'pleasing'
and set them on a shelf
next to bowls full of tears
and baskets full of unwanted memories.
It was cold
aching like limbs in the winter
sip it,
let the ice unfurl,
bitter on your tongue,
grief catching
in your throat
before settling into the pit
of your stomach,
like a swallowed apple seed.
one day the winds came
knocking all of the bottles down
and all around in the broken air,
ruptured by the fragmented glass,
screams - starved and rising
screams shattering bone
screams - ringing
wild and ragged
at last.

I should have left.
That first moment,
when my heart convulsed.

But i was stubborn,
I didn’t.
I stayed.
I had to know.
I had to risk it.

The body knows,
before the mind does.

Some truths whisper first,
shatter later.

Gentle breeze,
Softness that touches ears.
It comes and goes.
It does what shows.
It is mutual.
It brings scents of sweetness,
Or brings clouds of death.
But to tell why,
You may hold your breath.
Do not worry,
It is not what’s due.
Love in patience,
Will always- walk back to you.

In the beginning, the universe was simple
hydrogen adrift, uniform, featureless.
No spark. No shape. No meaning.

Then came gravity. the invisible hand that pulled atoms toward each other.
Not out of need, but out of attraction.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t rush.
It simply drew things closer.

And in that closeness? Friction. Heat. Fire.
Stars were born.
Inside those stars: gold, carbon, diamond, uranium, the rare, the radiant, the necessary.
Then came life. Then came us.

Without gravity, the universe would have remained cold. Silent. Pointless.
With it, it sang.

So too with love.

We, too, begin as scattered selves.
Drifting. Guarded. Independent.
Then someone enters our orbit
not violently, but undeniably…
and we feel pulled.

And when love is real - not forceful, but fundamental - it becomes gravity.

It creates heat where there was indifference.
It forges meaning where there was monotony.
It makes the rarest things - trust, sacrifice, ecstasy, forgiveness… possible.

Without love, we remain inert.
With it, we combust into something bigger than ourselves.

Not every force is loud.
Some reshape the cosmos… quietly, persistently - one touch at a time.

As my gaze falls upon his face
The rhythm of my heart increases
Beating hard as though
It wants to escape my body

The sound of his voice
Ignites a wild fire in me
The louder he gets
Feels like he is mocking me

My reaction towards him
Is not due to the fact that Im shaken
But because of the burning fury
Within the deepest parts of my ember

All the bad things that could harm him
Rushes through my mind vividly
And I know they are almost impossible
Even so I can only hope
That he pays for the pain he has caused.

Climbing and descending winding hills and mountain ranges,
Crossing valleys, threading through narrow paths,
Blowing through twisted branches and soft leaves,
Raising flags, straining stubborn masts,
Pushing heavy clouds, tearing the darkened sky,
Driving restless currents and seas —
Overcoming the void.

But at times, it quiets into a gentle breeze,
Giving way to comforting stillness,
To the humid silence of a blazing day,
To the star-strewn, domed moonlit night,
To the morning bathed in ascending sun.

Among agitations, flows, pauses, rhythms and courses,
In a delirious tempo of surges and setbacks,
Time dwells —
In the moment, the age, the occasion,
In cycles that return like seasons,
Like the expectation of light in the auroras.

Entwined with feelings,
It arises in the fleeting peak of joy,
Like an eternal farewell embrace;
In the echoing longing of an instant,
Like the anguish of a vibrant memory;
In the stifling anxiety of what’s to come,
Like an agonizing rush of adrenaline;
In the fear that paralyzes and silences,
Like the despairing terror of war;
In the fleeting rest of happiness,
Like a lasting repose of gentle promises;
In the scars left by conflict,
Like intrigue nurtured by indifference;
In the forgiveness that wounds and frees,
Yet leaves murmuring scars.

Time flows through it all,
Sometimes dragging, sometimes rushing through
The passing hours —
Impersonal, unending,
Like the changing landscape;
At times intimate and brief,
Like the clearing of thoughts
That only time knows how to overcome.