i didn’t see love in you, it is you that i have found on it.
i see love in everything. i see it first on october when everyone could think summer will never be existing, it is when i have sought rebellions under my definition of wars and crossroads, and i see you on it. and that is i think when i began to see love in everything. i have seen it lurking around the light that i have found in your palms, i have seen it inside the cages you kept hidden into your eyes where i found myself falling even if you told me how you hate the idea of rainfalls. i have seen it on silent nights that it turned out singing rhymes and i have seen it into things that remained vivid—etched in my memory: the colour of your shirt, your favourite cologne, your scars underneath your body, and the colours of your soul. and by then, i have learned how your lips could speak different languages of love but darling, to hear my name is my favourite thing.
i see love in everything. and i always see you on it. perhaps, it explains why i still see love every time i blink to refrain the doubts and fears from blurring all the memories; i still see love on minutes we spent in silence, where a pair of tattered soul can be seen, standing in between of doubts and certainties. and i have even seen it even in between of your tired sighs and clenched fists, in between of my sobs and hopeless trying to wipe every shadows of love itself from the walls. i have seen it in the memory of your burning touch erasing the colours and laughter between us. i have seen love in every foot prints you left, and even in your good-byes. i have seen love when i’ve waited for you to come home by end of the month. and maybe, the time of waiting is too cruel, every minute is too long to keep me dancing along the sounds of my heart breaking in pieces, and i can now smell November rains. and who will believe that i would still see love on it. maybe because love is where i found you. and i have seen it into the sound of raindrops. of breaking hearts. and into my soul that longs for your touch. so much. that i even feel the pains to the flesh inside.
months passed, i have written hundreds of love poems—even about heartbreaks and history of my past lovers—but they are often about you, and it still wasn’t enough to bring you home. that is when i seized my heartbeats and realized that i’m loving the rainfalls now. and i’m still loving the hideous forms of love, which, by the way, include the only thing you left me with back then: silence. and i’m still there. still loving the things. but darling—
i don’t want to see october again.
— 03:02 l. sin, love on october
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from We Heart It
