‘But I don’t love you.’

                       ‘But I don’t love you.’ ‘That’s okay.’

I just read something beautiful on the Internet about how sure all of us are about love, and how we just can’t accept that the people who can’t or won’t love us, aren’t broken or incapable of emotions. This reminded me of a guy I dated. He couldn’t get himself to love me and I just kept thinking how unfortunate his existence was. ‘Unable to love me’. That used to exhaust me. I felt like a bunch of photons near a black hole. All I had and all I felt went into him, and nothing came back ever. I kept wondering why sometimes every thing is okay, except the fact that ‘they’ don’t love you back.

That’s our problem. All we have been taught about love is that it teaches us to be better people, makes us more tolerant and loving and how love must most certainly be complete only if we receive. It’s high time people talk about the importance of unrequited love to their kids and fairy tales learn to keep it real. Love can’t always be for the better. Love doesn’t mend, all the time. What about the kind of love that lets people drown themselves in bathtubs? What about the kind of love where people become the monsters inside their heads? Why is that not love? Why is any thing fucked up not love? Obsession. Rebound. Abuse. Why are we so afraid to agree that even love smothers souls, even though love is meant to repair?

If ‘they’ don’t love you back, it’s not a problem. It’s a situation. Sometimes, it doesn’t need mending. Sometimes, it is okay to not be loved back, because ‘they’ are people like you and me, and sometimes, we just mess it up and don’t fall for people like we’re supposed to. So if someone doesn’t love you back, don’t try to make them. They’re not a candle and you’re not a moth. You have wings. Fly away. Love and learn to leave it at that. Fulfillment lies not only in requisition but also in denial. The colors are different and yes, you’ll cry yourself to sleep for a week or two, but then, that’s that. Heal. Tragedy is beautiful, yes, but learn to know that sometimes, you’ve had your share.

‘Even love unreturned has its rainbow.’ 

Let it rain, human. Let it at least rain.

Her name

You’ll never find her.

She’s changed her name.

She’s changed like a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, only backwards.

She’s changed her perfume,
praying to God that the smell you think of when you suddenly wake up at 3:30 AM is not hers anymore.

She’s changed her eye color,
so that even if someday you chance to look into them, a different her looks back at you.

She got the piercing off,
so that every time she looks in the mirror, she isn’t reminded of how you did drugs off her belly button.

She’s changed her address,
so that even if you knock, it’s not the right door.

She’s not your graveyard anymore,
where you can go and pretend to die when you feel like shit.

She’s just gone. She’s lost information.

She’s changed her name.
You’ll never find her.

.