you ask “what terrible love means?”

to my “love stories are always terrible.”

and i sit there silent with so much to say.

while you say “stop presuming things on

your own, you indulge yourself too much

in muse” how do i tell that the things

bothering me so much aren't actually the

lunacy at all but the actuality of realism?

we go on for hours and hours, mornings

chirp along the edges of livelihood and

our nights are gladly romanticized by the

gentle songs of love. And i fear, i fear what

if we will unfortunately be out of topics

someday? what if these small details of

days wiill mold themselves into ‘just fine’

texts? what if it will be exasperating to tell

that it is somewhat burdening us both?

we sit for hours and hours, the sunshines

and sunsets remarkes of how we proceeded

another day, how at the costly prices of ego

we fortunately managed to have hand in hand

And I fear, I fear what if one day the rate of egos

will outpass the love within? what if the

arguments will replace themselves with heart

wrenching screams following infuriating silence?

what if sitting next to each other we will find

ourselves kilometers away?

now when we feel like we have fallen out of

topics to discuss, when it is clear to us that

neither me nor you is interested in sharing

our perspectives with reference to the

political or social hereabouts, or about how

this person, we fell for broke our heart and

how it all doesn't hurt the same.

you see, lies a terrible love.

“are you okay” and in between the gaps

of blackout I realize what is it.

It isn't the one which

just selfishly leaves but the one which

stays there silently and shatters every inch of you

but then it is of no use since you will lack the gut

to recognize it anymore

“what on the earth made you think i am not?” I reply.

Thanks For Reading.