Love came to me one day in a form of a painting, deep and beautiful in the eyes.
..a flower, disputable yet historical, artificial yet everlasting.
..a pillow, fluffy in a way but comforting in another.
..an album, full of stories.
..a ring that promises forever.
Love came to me one day in a form different from the rest and the common...
...like a mania that once conquered the world, it struck me ethereally like no other..
...but unlike the short-lived manias that ameliorated in history, mine dwells, warm with patience and cold with longing, everyday nudging my ribcage as if to convince my heart that it was in fact, love, in just a different form.
But my heart was so stubborn to acknowledge the love it found. I set the love free and I grabbed it back only to hold it tightly in my hand until it crumpled and bled.
The love cried.
The love wrestled.
The love stiffened.
But when I opened my hand again, ready to disprove the love I found, the love's still there, barely breathing but whole. The love remained with a breathy whisper and said, "Hi. I'm love but just in a different form."
Love came to me one day different from the rest and the common. And I am so happy, happy that it is true.
This is an excerpt from my story The Livre and the Lover: Chapter 50.
