Lovers come in and let go, hands once held so tightly together suddenly feels better empty and brushing through the wind instead of bracing the sweaty palms of another. Sometimes we fall down so hard, it just feels better to wallow in self-pity even though that is the worst form of pity the world can witness. Sometimes we just let down people in our lives just so we can protect ourselves.
One would think on the third heartbreak you would learn a lesson to give everything away except the heart but after the fifth time, its just a waste of tuition fees. Counted broken faith in happily ever after, seeing your first love getting married to a beautiful lady mightily crushes the toughest of bones and shreds the stomach to pieces of splinters, splinters you wish could bite the hands that wears the ring engraved with the name of the man whom deflowered you. You tried so hard to be the one who was the first to move on, but you find yourself in the middle of the night mumbling his son's name. Is it a coincidence that his son's birthday falls on the same day as yours or is that a punishment from God to remind him of the woman who once promised to give him everything and he didn't believe or is that an added torture to turn a year older every year with the son who could have been yours, for promising all that you would give but never gave? What could you possibly have done wrong or maybe if you had met him now, instead of before, would you have the chance to carry his last name? But every girl is a Cinderella waiting for their prince coming around with the glass slippers and princes are in abundance.
At the sixth break up, love is still the most precious thing in the world even after seeing all six past lovers married with outrageously beautiful children, children that could have been yours, with the brightest eyes and the cheekiest smiles. The hue of hydrangeas' petals depend on the acidic of the soil. Adding an extra tomato to a dish can do wonders or just ruin it. The petals of roses can defer but the smell of them still hits the familiar note. A few pegs of vodka is a sure fire way to move on. At the seventh try because you should never give up, when the magic words of 'I love you' are spoken, all the epidermis on the skin stand on perfect attention and the stomach awakes the sleeping butterflies - every single time it happens and the rush never weakens like time past and memories has weakened the blushed face. Love is a like moon; going to its fullest form and depleting to a narrow sliver line and then it grow again - its sad when its gone but at every full moon, a celebration is a must.
How does a full moon occur? How do we fall in love? How do we stay in love? Do we say the magic words to comfort ourselves and make us feel like we are capable of loving another because many can't or do we say the magic words just to hear the other reciprocate the feelings just so we know we are loved by someone? When is too soon to say it? When is too late to say it? Is there a rhythm or right timing? Should we look into eyes and say with sincerity? Does purest sincerity and truest intentions exist in the world? Does love even exist? You never become an expert at love, having been in love for the hundredth time even. But love is never a lesson to be learnt, it just happens and when it happens you just sink into the moment and live it fullest. Just bask in the moment and glow.
On trampoline, inside a tent, a forest, on decaying green-yellowish patch in the garden, a bed in a room or outside under the open sky, a sofa bed or a parked car in the middle of a creepy looking car park, wherever you could possibly be, home is where the arms wraps around the goosebumps skin of roses scent, petals that change according to the pH level and many dishes are just garbage if tomatoes doesn't dress it. Roses are roses, hydrangeas are hydrangeas and no bad can come out of tomatoes. Love doesn't even need a home, lovers are just some drunk assholes just wanting to fall asleep in a place thought as home. Lovers are like a dream of a toilet bowl and peeing in it and waking up suddenly to a warm and wet bed with your urine soaking into your underwear; its comforting, its disgusting, its private, its funny and its a lot of seeing dreams come true. It doesn't make sense, love shouldn't make sense to anyone except you. Love is when you could have possibly kissed a million lips but when you can wake up next morning with zero trace of mascara and a breathe that could make a horse feel blessed, and the millionth and one lips turn to you and kiss you, all the million lips before are but a million lips you can't even remember any longer.
Love is a lighted candle, protect it to stop it from dying but if it dies, let it die. As long as the wick is still part of the candle, you can light up again. All you need is sparks and sparks are endless. Or maybe, you chose to blow off the lighted candle because with him, even darkness is such a splendor. Love is also being cheesy as hell and lovers should be forgiven all the time for it.