This thing called love,
is not a play ground for little children.
It is no spare part reserved for broken souls;
Not a beach sand for building temporary castles.
This thing called love,
does not colour the skies like Noah's rainbow
which comes and goes like a sprinting flash light.

If this were the case, I'd have had many a coat of colours;
an arm band of multi-coloured emotions.
If that were love, my hands would be full of sweet smelling flowers; The roses on my left and the lilies on my right.
I'd have had a belle full of butterflies,
all swarming and igniting fires and sensations of insearchable cravings.


This thing called love is not a song that can be played by a broken guitar
neither can birds with broken beaks chirp along it's chorus
for the more they try, the lesser their voices go,
This thing called love, is not a journey for those with bandages or broken heels.
It is not for those with torn spirits,
looking for some seamstress to tack falling parts back in place.

This thing called love, is a sacred little piece upon whose body is engraved "Trust".
It means I, giving me to you and being hopeful.
It means that even when the thunder and lightning claps during the heaviest storms,
your comforting hands would walk me through the scenario.
This thing called love,
is for lovers who know what it takes to love and not lovers, who seek to understand what it all means.

So, when I say "I love you",
I hope your ears translate them as "I am here for you" .
I hope you see my commitment as a means of lending out a part of me.
When I say "I love you",
I mean you can trust me with the most fragile part of your being
not to be broken, not to be torn apart, not to be handled with any atom of carefreeness.
When I say "I love you",
I just want to remind you that the reason the Hamattern breeze seem cruel,
is because it seems to seal the lips of men from opening their mouths, at your beauty.
that even when the sun refuses to show forth its beams and my day is without light,
your smile makes the glory of the sun look so small, and everyday, exceptional.

Dear Z,
I wish I can love you the way you deserve
but the imperfections which plagues me is turned me into an obtuse angle.
But, if You're listening, I hope your anger doesn't exceed ninety degrees, because I desire that you see from the right angle!
From straight unbendable angle that I love you and you don't need 180 reasons to to be sure.

This thing called love,
has become a stale song on my lips
yet it is too precious for your ears and too heavy for your heart.
It is a broken syllable of a lost melody.
A burden too weighty for a heart as tender as you're to carry and heavy for my lips to whisper.
you see this thing called love,
It makes me wonder.
maybe we lost it all when we thought had it;
Or maybe we never had what we thought we lost.
All I know is that
My arms now feel empty even though nothing was ever in them
And my sight,
now blind even though it saw nothing.