A story like that

 A story like that

~Miss A

It's been a long time, since I read love stories,

Stories, that went like,

"He was known for being the most handsome one has seen",

"And she was the one who never fell for looks, found it the most unhappening".

And whatever that meant to each other,

Would dissolve once they catch them eyes. 

But oh, did these stories really exist?

Or should I write one for the community service?

Service from deep within, that catches the gist of the utmost pain,

Pain, worst of it's kind, like decaying,

Just because of being away,

Uncanny, yet in a way that touches.

A story where you find pink in pastels, over ivory skin,

A demeanor, all lit with it, eyes glittering in mist,

And not just her, it's him too, pink and flushed in my story,

I pretty much don't like the one sided thing like story.

A story set in the month of Avril, hung a little by spring,

Spring, a vista portraying summer flowers blooming in the mid breese,

Not those fancy dresses, but them calmly enjoying the fields in loose tshirts,

Maybe this will ruin fantasy, but I wish to feel the reality in it.

Maybe a popsicle will do, maybe sharing one even better,

Oh no, this is where I burn my story, I ain't sharing,

But maybe if you ask me once again, I would define the next phrases. 

Phrases that tell you, about the envy,

Envy, from even little things, you wish it rather would've been you.

Those hair that drop to your cheeks, you'd wish to be that prop,

Wish to cling like your little tattoo, always there.

Wish to be seen like your favourite food, when you're burning so so hungry,

Wish to see for yourself, whatever their eyes are watching.

Alas! No one gets to be in other man's shoes,

And then there is this subtle rise of weakness. 

Weakness, from the point you get nightmares of them getting hurt,

Hurt, as in any form, physical, emotional or just hurt. 

When the clock starts ticking, hammering your head,

Like unlike regular updates, a three hours late information of them being okay.

How do you take that, when you are not near,

You keep wishing positive, getting engulfed by fear.

Only to hear a silly reason for all of it and you sigh,

Sigh, a breath thanking for it not being serious.

As serious as it may seem, it gets fragile moments,

Moments, where they fight over something,

That may bring a knot over their terms and conditions of love,

Only to get past it, and understand that another chapter written burns those pages.

Although new theories and rules are written to save themselves from those occurrences,

Yet some occasions briefly make you remember those.

Saddened and hardened you they'd move on slowly,

Only to realise, the stories they task about didn't encapsulate learning.

Learning each other is one thing I respect more than love itself, cruel,

Cruel, because mortal creatures can un-love, but never un-learn.

Understanding the bindings and biddings of their complex brain,

How they'd react when faced by horrors of the world,

Or as simple as how they'd express thier casual emotions,

The things that make you feel warm, are the once actually making you cold.

And you'd get it, exactly in the moment you fall in love,

Standing right beside each other, the world would spin.

Spin like the earth, tracing lines of the stars you gazed,

Gaze them like you haven't seen anything like it.

A story that would put it in your head somehow,

That the perfections we look, is just the compatibility of each other.

May seem stupid, but the subconscious always knows,

If they're actually good for you or if you're just fooling yourself.

And they'd know it well too, both options have a sad ending. 

A bitter one of letting them go, denial better than true love. 

Love, a stories I deem par more bitter than anything,

Anything, that is being impacted by every move of the other.

Loyalty aside, it'd be lethal, it's very different,

It's neither sad nor depressed, it's a different kind of romance,

Plated themself, dressed in the best toppings,

Butter and tangled cilantro, hoping for the bite.

Shall I tell you a story like that? It won't be original,

For every story I write talks about this flavour of ripe.

Ripe, a bit sour and yet like melons so sweet,

Sweet, like you found a heaven right next to them.

Can I end the story in a scene? 

Won't their eyes be enough to justify?

I could tell you about the scenes they trusted a them little more,

More than before, and more than before, and more than ever.

For the spice, I could even tell how they laughed when they were close,

But I quit; for anything I say, I won't be able to dictate it as perfectly as them.

🌸