the bone:

i laid down the framework,
scratched along my skeleton.
bared myself to the very core—
i feel like
i’ve been here before.

someone once asked me what love is.

first things first,
this reminded me of something i’d written a couple years back.

love isn’t always in between people,
or romantic for that cause.
sometimes, it’s as simple as falling in love with the way the rain falls over you,
tipping down your face,
the way you get to breathe in the scent of wet mud—
love can be anything.
different for everyone.
but just the same feeling for each.
(if not similar)

love is what i feel
when i look at people i cherish,
things i like,
things i need,
things i have—
my family,
my friends,
my baby bunny.

i love love.
(i hate it.)

it's so unique… isn’t it?
like magic almost.

how someone can suddenly enter your life
and become such a big part of it,
that to think of them not being here—
beside you—
it’s simply impossible.
either here, or not at all.

it doesn’t make sense
how we can feel this much
for someone.
an animal.
a memory.
a friend.
a lover.

to be honest,
i don’t think love is love
as they show in movies.
hypothetically, even if it were—
i think it'd be a lot less dramatic.

it’s beyond that.

it's holding onto the one you love—
the thing you love—
holding onto the memories you made.
holding onto the feelings you caught
in that one situation,
the visions where you envisioned them in,
the smiles,
the warm floaty feeling within
when you have the one you love,
close to you.

because that’s love—
something pure.
something innocent.
something deep.
something warm.

something alive.

you want to know that it is/they are—with you.
at a distance,
far away,
no matter.
but in terms of feelings
and heart
and bonding—
close by.
close to you.

it’s happiness.
and pain.

ah…
to think of not being in love?
it’s such a crime.

i wish every person in this world
gets to experience it once.
doesn’t matter if heartbreak comes later.
i feel like pain from heartbreak
would be more pure.
raw.
a reminder of a heart
that still beats—
probably for someone else,
something else.

i get the meaning now
behind the words:

my heart beats for you.

to say it,
i think it means
loving someone
just oh-so-much...
that to think of them not being here…
physically hurts.
loving someone so much
that you feel like you’re alive for them.
breathing for them.

and it's toxic.
but it’s magical.

capable of setting you alight,
making you taste
what poison might feel like.

it's insane
how something so psychologically toxic
can be so emotionally divine.
(is love a drug of some kind?)

and to think—
to wish—
for it to happen to me
and everyone alive?

maybe it’s mean of me.
but i guess i can be mean this once.
call me arrogant, call me rude
i curse you with the truest hue
one that love shall pour over you
thank me later, i know you'll do.


if humanity doesn’t know
the depth of love,
what are we even doing?

love isn’t that bookish,
movie-typa thing.
it’s beyond.
different for everyone.

i could be in love
with an animal,
a person,
a thing,
a memory,
anything.

and i love the feeling.
always will.
despite the pain
of losing it.

it’s the circle of life.
and i’m here for it.
alive.
still.



the muscle:

they told me to maintain.
i held the weights,
flexed every part,
endured—
reached here,
and tore myself apart.

wrote the above thing
close to two years back or so,
but reading it—
i’ve missed out on loads
and well—
this piece of text
is as messy as love gets.

now, i write—

love is—
a verb.
an action.

in terms of emotions—
it's an intense feeling
of admiration
you feel towards someone.

for me—
i don’t know.
i’ve never known.
perhaps i won’t—
or perhaps it’ll click
some random day,
i guess—
when i feel that way
about someone?
(do you care?)

but love is also—
care.
it’s friendship.
it’s the world around me.
it’s myself.
it’s you.
it’s everyone around you.
(shh, i'm onto—)

the word is simple.
the meaning—
yeah, well—
it’s complex.

but not complicated
as we make it out to be.
it’s simply complex,
like that one chemical equation
that always seemed scary
until you finally understood it.

seems scary.
but once you fall—
it’s a trust fall.
either you do it
entirely all at once—
or you take a step back.

and that "all at once"
might seem like it’s happening
in steps,
but that’s the complexity of it.

besides—
falling is easy.
maintaining is hard.
staying is hard.

which brings me
to the romantic type of love.
the relationship one.
and that is where i pause…

because to share that too
would be like—
(won't give out my secrets,
what you'll do?)

i'll jot down the keys:
three of them,
that’ll carry forward
any bond that needs maintaining—

effort being the core,
communication being the key,
the way the brain matches,
cognitive,
behavioral,
telepathy way,
and nervous—
won’t go into science—
but psychologically.

let’s just skip over this.


the skin:

surface.
it’s all on the surface.
i’m merely any perfect.

porcelain-like feelings,
perception of all of them—
temporary towards me.
oh,
but will you touch it?

you don't say—i like the rain—
but directly, i love the rain.
never, i like you, directly—
often, i love you.

loving is beyond liking.
you can like something,
you will love it—
but loving can also happen
when you don't like the thing.

liking someone
for the idea of them—
that’s just liking
the view you've built in your head.

but the real person is so much more.
won't find that out
until you talk to them,
until everything between you two
is transparent,
no secrets anymore.

that’s how you know
if you love them or not.

you can like someone,
and then love them.
but you can also love someone
and not like them.

like your family.
like some friendships.

sometimes,
you love first,
and then start to like
the smallest of things they do.
the tiny, silly things
that make them them.

don't try to fit people
into the ideal mold
you've made in your head.
we're falling in love,
not baking cookies.

let them be.
see them for what they are,
not what you want them to be.
(cookies can be decorated,
like love on a human being.)

that’s what we miss.
that’s what makes
humanity feel so hard to find.
(we become bakers,
forget the baseline)

we demand perfectionism.
even in people.
and perfectionism in love—
is impossible.
imperfectly perfect.
you and i, i term it.

you're love.
i'm love.
well made outta love.
(shush, not that way.)

every single one of us is love.
and perhaps it's easy to digest
when you think about it,
poetically— say
love yourself, do you?


the nerves:

pulses and poison—
like the extremes to a function.
chaos. sensitivity.
squelching organs.

synapses i’ve been sending...
here’s the current
that’s been reeling in its wake.


love is care.
love is pain.
it's anger—disguised as unsaid words.
it's the unspoken, undeterred mess of emotions
you feel
when you look at something,
or someone,
and you realize—
you want it.

not in an owning way,
but in a way where you want
to see it / see them
every day you wake.

you want it beside you,
close, in front of you,
the same way—
for the rest of your life
and beyond
(if that even exists).

it's not ***.
not touch.
not kiss.

those are just forms.
you kiss your pet.
you kiss your mother.
you kiss your lover.
three kisses,
three different galaxies—
same name.
kissing.
loving.

loving is
feeling all the positives
and all the negatives.

i guess it's loss.
it's care.
it's anger.
it's pain.
it's hatred.
it's hurt.
it's admiration.
it's hope.
it's happiness.
it's the cloud of anxiety.
it's the fear of losing.
it's the ache of loving too much.
it's—everything.
it is us.

just don’t say i love you
if it’s the same love you feel for the moon,
or the way flowers bloom
in front of your eyes.

don’t say it
unless it has encompassed you whole.
unless you’d want to repeat it till the very end—
in anger,
in resentment,
in between a brawl,
or even when you’re hurting,
feeling everything in all it's might.

in those awful,
quiet moments
when everything feels like too much.

don’t say it—
even though you feel it.

because often,
the i love you that feels like everything
isn’t rooted deep enough
to grow and stay.
the strongest roots—
they spread when you wait.

when you feel those feelings
again and again,
until you realize
you’re not bored of them.
until they’ve become your normal.
the way your heart chooses to beat.

don’t say i love you
if you aren’t ready to commit your life
to the sin
that is called
loving.

and if i say i love you,
that simply means
i may or may not like you—
but i accept you.
and i need you.

not in the way you’d need me,
not the way you'd call it romantic,
not like i need my baby bunny,
not like i need my family—

but in a way
i wouldn’t want to see you go.
i’d want you to stay right here,
beside.
and every day i wake up,
i’d want to see you.
to feel the same exact feelings—
and so much more—
than what i feel
when i say:

"i love you,
stay here, whole."



the whole:

the being
culmination.
philosophical abomination.
quiet truths—
anatomy resulting.

i am,
therefore i live.
i am,
therefore i love.


i’d written about loving
like it’s something that happens.

beautiful.
tainted.
untainted.
unpredictable.
messy.
ra­w.
visceral even.
magical.

it was everything around me,
everything that could be,
everything that was.
and is.
and me.

it was innocent.
it was inevitable.
it was heartbreak.

and then it was anatomy.
if the previous me
termed love as bone—

the bones laid down the structure,
i poured in the muscle,
covered it in skin,
gave it life through nerves,
brought a whole being—
alas, i'd forgotten
there was a shadow—
that it was bound to bring in.

made it a verb, an action.
less ethereal yet mighty,
more grounded, yet aloof,
capable of setting you alight.

at first it was feeling,
now it was becoming.
it was doing.
it was—its meaning.

acceptance.
showing up.
caring.
moving on.
feeling.
letting go.
breathing.
relieving.
crying.
laughing.
drying your own tears.
hugging a friend.
expressing.

not always a sunshine.
not always glittering.
not always melancholy either.
not always a sad ending.
or an ending at all.

it's irony.
it's metaphor.
it's simple.
it's a word.

it's not clean,
it's poetic,
it's real—
tender,
alive.

it's us.
love is us.

it's you.
it's me.
it's everyone around.

living.
wanting.
wanting to live.
living to accept.
to love life.

that's loving.

it's grieving.
it's accepting.
it's needing, requiring
and yet not tying a knot
to keep it close.

can't lock up the favorite flower
in the garden
just 'cause i love it, no?
it'll die for no cause.

this is my anatomy of love.
i present it to you.

all love is,
and all it can be—
and there's much more
that i can't encompass in writing.

but it's everything
and beyond
and nothing at all.

love is—love.
loving.
it's loving.

i love this.

it's evolving.
it's like us.

growing.
learning.
new ways,
new outcomes,
new lives.

it's us.

it's smiling after a touch with death.
it's grieving the loss
of someone who promised to stay forever
but left.

it's promises.
the broken ones,
the completed ones—
the endings,
the not-really-an-endings.

and if you're looking for an ending to this,
it won't.

because love—
will keep going on.

it's love, no?









the shadow:

in disguise, unwelcomed.
deep,
darkest becoming of the negative might.

full body burn—
a copy.
following.
seething.
my closest enemy.

and sometimes
you’ll fall “out” of love—

which is normal.
it’s a phase—
or well, they say so.

that kind of love isn’t the one i’ve talked about above.
for sometimes
we tend to forget
love means staying too—
staying,
not because you have no other choice
but because you want to.

that sometimes
you might feel
the feelings vanished—
that everything you felt
turned into its contrary.
negative,
i.e. hate.

love was—
and has always been—
a natural.
hatred
is the one feeling
we milked out of it,
the wrong way,
for the wrong reasons.

but sometimes
it’s valid too.

these are all paradoxes.

but in a world
of falling in love
only to fall out of it
and move on—

opt to fall in love
for commitment.
to stay—
even if the feelings fade,
perhaps not in the same way
or not at the same levels—
but accepting and allowing yourself to feel
whatever gave it birth
in the first place.

love isn’t always a feeling either.
sometimes,
it’s a decision.
one you have to remake—
daily.
weekly.
monthly.
every second of your life—
even when you feel like the “love” faded.

it won’t always feel good—
but when you feel it,
it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever felt.

though,
a couple things that love isn’t:

it isn’t psychotic.
obsessing.
snatching.
controlling.

it isn’t something that ought to make you go haywire,
make you forget your own life.
it isn’t something that’s meant
to make you want to die.

if you love someone—
don’t say you’d die for them.
live for them.
try to.
intend to.

like a nutty chocolate
that also has fruits
and a bit of darkness to it—
love is
a mix of paradoxes.

it’s
chaotically messy.


and if the love
hurts you—

find your peace
despite loving
the thing
that brings you ache.

find your comfort,
despite knowing
you loved it.
loved them.

for sometimes,
distancing
is loving—

for them
and for you.

love,
but love yourself too.

it could
wrap around your ribs
like silk—

but you'd realize
the thorns
hidden beneath it.

love
doesn’t have to be monstrous,
forced.

it doesn’t have to be complex.

just
feel what you feel.
express,
and bloom.

the bittersweet,
the happysad,
the syringe
filled with sugar syrup—

this part
is the shadow of love.


i guess i did perform an autopsy over love.

“What is not to be had in haste, may yet echo on the grieving wind.”
— Su ****

The pallor of the desolate plain —
a wound torn by void.
Those great swathes of barren earth,
laid bare —
are my chest,
yellowed and cracked with thirst.

She holds her head high,
nonchalant —
dragging behind her a hem
as lucid and dark as eyes
that have seen through dreams.

The snowy lace, pure as accumulated frost,
stirs up dust —
like the tender light at the horizon’s edge,
trembling into dawn.

I thought it was the sweet, silken whisper
of a love just waking,
mist-drenched and dizzying…
I wandered deep into it,
entranced,
never to return.

Her steps —
mysterious as the sea’s dense murmurs
when dusk is full.

Each footfall
layered with gentle unrest,
floated
toward the dimples of innocent laughter,
ever deeper,
until freedom itself
seemed just a breath away…

And my fevered imagination
scrambled and stumbled blindly,
thrashing with futile longing.

But oh — the great ironclad of love!
Launching its voyage!
And with cannons that shattered the sky
proclaimed:

Heaven, red with blood, is boiling!
Let the burning Utopia blaze in delight!

But her steps —
her steps are also
so firm,
so forward…
As if from the unreachable gleam ahead
some force of fate
pulls her onward,
irresistible,
unmatched.

And I —
I am helpless.

Forward…
A paltry mayfly,
daring to stop
the eternal rise of the sun
with one trembling day of life.

My proud, resounding cries
were silenced,
crushed into a choking hush,
into shattered bone…

She paid them no mind.

With unbearable grace
she brushed aside the clamor —
brushed away the storms —
and moved forward.

Her heels,
cold as the blade of an axe,
hacked into my flesh.

And the rustling of her skirt
drifted farther, farther still —
until only the groans
of withered grass remained.

The moon, pale and ravenous,
devoured every ember of warmth,
and night,
black and intimate,
caressed my spine like death’s quiet hand…

I was calm —
calmer than I have ever been,
like the pulse
of the already-dead.

In vain I turned again and again
to lick the bitterness
from every grain of this earth —
each one once soaked
in the sweet sweat of youth.

And her scent, receding,
took with it
my last ray
of sunlight.

Fighting not to drown
in the whirlpool
of torturous thoughts
twisting
my slowly breaking mind.

I love you, but it hurts
The kind of hurt that we adore
The kind of hurt that makes you stay
The kind of hurt that tastes like cherry cola
So sweet you ignore the poison it harbors