Love is beautiful, they say.
Love is art. Love is poetry. Love is music.
Love is perfect.
Is it though? Is love really beautiful?
Some may say love is beautiful.
Say, it's the lovers who ruin its beauty.
But if a "lover" cannot hold its beauty and continue to expand it, can he really be called a true lover?
Love—such a common word, thrown around so often, even when the speaker doesn't mean it, that the real meaning of it is forgotten.
Love, what does it even mean?
For some, love would mean getting hugged by their parents when they're sick. For some, it'd mean coming home to their significant other after a hard day at work. For some, it's nestling against their puppy while their world fell apart.
And for some, it means bearing a curse.
A burden.
A strong sense of sadness, hurt, and never-ending misery.
Which reminds, love, which is known for being never-ending itself, never actually lasts forever.
When did it ever, anyway?
So many kinds of love, so many definitions, yet only a few cases of genuine love could be seen.
Love at first sight is even fewer.
Rarer.
The kind that makes you want to be better from just a sight.
Two pairs of eyes would lock and the sparks would grow instantly—unexpectedly yet surely—lightening their eyes with warmth. Their world would slow down when in reality no one would care, while all they would hear is their wildly beating heart, their brain trying their hardest to make their body move—to move forward, to move on—but everything else would blur, and all they would see is each other.
They'd know absolutely nothing about the other, but in that moment, they'd be certain they had to know everything, had to find all the puzzle pieces.
And all of this isn't my problem, not when I don't believe in such sayings.
In such irrational forms of mythic perfection.
Forms of perfect love.
Because love isn't perfect.
In fact, it's anything but.
An unrealistic, magnified, and creatively imagined illusion is what love really is.
Like a bubble that lovers put around their relationship to make it seem perfect.
A bubble, that everyone can see through—the flaws, the cheapness, the imperfection.
Yet still, they pretend it's perfect.
It isn't.
Because love isn't love.
It never was. Never will be.
Because what I'm feeling right now isn't perfect.
Isn't love, obviously.
It's sinful, immoral, and wrong.
So, so wrong.
That's why, when my stupid, stupid heart skips some predictable beats in a way that makes me feel like I'm about to bungee jump, and my silly, silly mouth dries as if I hadn't down a bottle of water in the car from nervousness, I blame it on the alcohol I had last night.
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The Neighbor's Desire (21+) • VK
Fanfiction"Push me away." The velvety voice, honeyed to the extent it feels alcoholic, puts me in a psychological blur. "Before I take you, right here, out in the open. Take you, until your throat is sore from screaming my name. Until all you remember is me."...
