fuck you

Fuck all the writers of all the romance books that I have read, all their made-up love stories that put candies into shame. All those wonderful scenarios have played inside my head, saying, "I wish I experience that too". They made every page look flawless. A dream that I believed possible to happen. The world, however, is not fiction. It has scars on all of its grounds, with wounded people hiding the skeletons inside their closets. There is no such thing as an ideal person. Match made in heaven is all but a lie created by those cruel writers. They implanted in my mind how kisses are supposed to feel. They said that there are fireworks everywhere, that you would feel like the room is empty and it's only two hearts connecting. They said it was slow and you remember the taste of those lips. 

It is not like that. 

Love does not look magical. No shiny bright lights are surrounding two people together. The room does not feel empty. You are aware of everyone you are with, you are aware of the passing cars, but somehow you are oblivious. The room feels full—so full. Like it is about to burst. Like all the windows and doors will explode. And it is fast— so fast like a blink of an eye. Like a train hitting you without stopping. And taste? It tastes nothing but sincerity poured into a touch. 

Love looks like casual talks, of saying the most random thing without thinking if it matters. It looks like comfortable glances, mundane kisses —sometimes wet—, and hugs that sometimes are confining—let me suffocate—. It is the breathing, the snorts, the loud peals of laughter, the small sniffles, the quiet whispers, the stupid arguments, and every human thing that does not look special in any way. I have never felt the butterflies in my stomach, I cannot even feel my stomach. There won't be many unbelievable memories nor many storybook lines that warm your heart. There is not much tragedy, no plot twists, just the now. There's only me and that person. Both naked souls sitting together under the darkest hour and lights seeping through the cracks embedded in both of us. There is that toe-curling sensation but all I could focus on was the silence and knowing—just knowing—that I am sitting here beside him. And once I extend my hand, he is reachable.

Fuck all the poets and their flowery words. Their haunting poems moving the ghosts lurking inside of me, the ghost that is wanting to be held. They painted love like it is a falling masterpiece. It does not. Love looks like nothing but standing up, or sitting, or lying on the floor. Love is every movement that you watch him do and all the stillness in between. There is no such thing as million reasons why you love a person, no profound similes that would describe what it feels. It feels normal. Like it has been waiting for you all your life. Like it has always been a part of you. It's like an instinct— like how you put your tongue out when you ate something spicy, how you sneeze when your nose gets irritated— you hold his hand because it does feel like an extension of who you are. No, the spaces between both hands are not perfect. They are not puzzle pieces. They are weird. Rough palms, sometimes sweaty, but you hold them without reasons why. You do not even ask. There is no such thing as fate or soulmates, only choices that would lead you to that person. No, he is not a muse, not a subject of anybody's creative work, he is just him and it is through him that I realize all the best things in life are not written. They fail to be written. 

Fuck all the metaphors that made me hope that once I have bumped into love, or see its shadows, I would produce the greatest poem. I cannot write anything. I am losing my words. you don't melt when you look at his eyes, you're just there—looking. There are no thoughts of how lucky you are, of how amazing he is, no metaphors to compare. There is only staring like he is fire and you just watch him dance gracefully while he is brightening your night. There is only that calmness, security, and this unknown feeling, that even the best poet cannot ink to explain what. Love is not incredible, not extraordinary, but it is wonderful. 

Most importantly, fuck me. Because here I am writing the feeling that I haven't felt before yet I act like I am a professional at this. A piece I haven't read and encountered yet so familiar. A risk my bravery surpasses. A book on top of my shelf and forever will be there. A sin I am willing to commit and never repent. A tear that has no trace of sadness. A smile that makes all other smiles trivial. A poem that is not applaudable but it renders all I have written before as lacking. 

I am putting clothes on love's mannequin, describing how it looks in the most poetic manner. But the truth? Love does not need big words or a fashionable closet, yet here I am, rummaging through every bit of my heart, bleeding dry every poet inside of me, just so I could make this. 

Love surfs on all the spaces that we connect in, all the distances that seem so close yet far, all the waves that drown every inch of my being. Love jumps on my impenetrable walls, on hesitant hearts, on unknowing strangers just saying hi. Love manifests in every small thing, on moles and scars, on hair and fingernails. It looks like long black hair, a white shirt, curses, and a face that seems so forgettable yet memorable in all ways than one. It looks like a poker face, rising mad eyebrows, and an annoying grin. Love looks like an artist still searching for his art. Love looks like him. 

Fuck. 

No one's ever ready for it. You just... know. It has different faces, depending on one's story—on one's person. Surely, it is nice to meet love, but it makes me speechless.