How does one look upon love?
Can those with trained souls give direction to those yet to be tamed?
There are many dictations and some renditions of what makes a heart sore.
And yet, I have not felt their truth.
Oh, but who is to say what is true?
I humour my desires, and they taunt me.
How do you say I love you without words?
A kind look? A smile? Extended arms and, with a sure embrace, somehow transfer your feelings and intentions?
And what if they are not received or felt the way you wish them to?
Love, when observed, comes forth in all different instances.
Cherishing in friendships and laughter in relationships and of course, courtship given the object of affections.
Though it never rings with sincerity.
That is not to say that no love is sincere and met with its equal.
Perhaps when this heart finds it's own, it shall be seen in fondness instead of ill mannered contempt.
Maybe that's the loneliness talking, and it speaks with tinges of green.
What is expected? Happiness is found in one's self, is it not?
To look for it in someone else seems so tiresome and immoral.
Many times, I have prided myself by being my own.
Then I found myself feeling and now it seems I am taken.
Only in the heart alone, as my body and all that I am remains.
Now I see my love echoes but in different caverns of longing and joy.
In the eyes of family and laughter of friends and in the smiles of other lovers.
I share it in words and lavish it in gifts, and yet inside is hollow.
Believe me that in giving, I feel peaceful, but I don't feel love for another.
At least not anymore.
In truth, it feels its come and gone.
Or maybe it has never left and is just waiting.
The question is when my heart gives its last call in hope.
Will it be answered?
So I ask again to those who claim they understand it.
Put love in perspective for me.
For I have seen it and this I can not deny it.
But is it worth the pain I've also witnessed?
Or worth the sacrifice when it is thrown farther than in front of us.
Will it work? Does it work? How? And will it last?
Is it an art, tangible, and beautiful.
Or is it only what hopeless romantics dream about.
For I am hopeless and by all accounts romantic.
Scholars and wordsmiths have written about loss and heartbreak.
Artists have painted stories laced with infatuation in each brush stroke.
Musicians have sang every note of their experience and serenaded the lovesick.
But none of them have told me the answer!
Or maybe I'm just not seeing or hearing it, or I don't want to.
Maybe I am scared of the truth.
The truth.
What is the truth.
Why is it when I think of it - it hurts so much.
I don't know what is and will be.
Nor if it is meant when it is said or if it is real.
Maybe love is true.
Or that the truth is love.
