Sensed Love

Love is like the vast stretched sky,
spread over everything. Not even a
poet can imagine the depth with
which the human heart can carry
this feeling. We are all indeed, a
fragile human race, intoxicated on
love and constantly engulfed by the
idea of it.
But love, my dear, is
dangerous. Sometimes it eats into
your bones. Sometimes it is the
most elaborate way of self-destructio
n. And sometimes, it nearly kills
you. But since when did that stop
people from loving each other? Sans
love, the human heart can do
nothing but scratch itself raw.

I don't really know what love looks
like. But I do hope, it looks like the
clouds adoring the rains, the
moonlight kissing the sea and soft
stars shining at night. There is no
escape from love. It entangles your
mind, body and soul like a spider's
web; the more you try to free
yourself from it, the more it sticks.
Even against your will. That's the
irony of love.

I don't really know what love sounds
like. But I do hope, it sounds like
music falling on silence, the
seductive rhythm in poetry and the
spontaneous laughter of a child.
Love, my dear, is fine gold in sand.
It's hard to find it. It is a rare
treasure. But once discovered, it
becomes the core, essence and
quintessence of your life. You will
never get enough of it.

I don't really know what love tastes
like. But I do hope, it tastes like
golden extracted honey, a spicy food
platter and underground spring
water. Love is an incredible
adventure. It makes you live a life,
do things and be to places that you
wouldn't have otherwise lived, done
or been to. Love is the road, the
journey and the destination you had
long forgotten.
I don't really know what love smells
like. But I do hope, it smells like
the pages of a new book, freshly
brewed coffee and earth after the
rain. Love is courage. Love is
wisdom. Love is hope. It makes you
daring even in the darkest hour of
life. It makes you loving, forgiving
and tolerant. It gives you strength
to fight back even when your whole
wide world seems to crack up.
I don't really know what the touch of
love feels like. But I do hope, it
feels like the cold wind blowing on
my face, the rich bonfire warming
my hands and the hot water
soothing my legs. All this said,
should I admit, love is in reality
nothing but a fancy synonym for
grief. It has no shame. It offers no
relief. It's absence weighs a lot but,
it's presence is far more heavy.
So when you come next time, Love.
Try a little charity. Bring along all
your airiness. Stop punishing me
with your gravity.