A Prose With No Direction

if i were to be love

Lately, I have been staring out the window of my room, eyes harassing the inhabitants of the boring grey house across my haunted one. I peer through the window of their home—their privacy—and find a transparent glass pane, draperies of purple on either of its sides, exposing the wirings of the household. 

One head.

Two head.

Three head.

Four.

Still a head having yet to learn.

I find the interior of their home to be quite cozy.

To be quite homely.

To be quite lovely.

No.

Not lovely.

Lovefull.

It makes me wonder—no, ponder—what it is to know love, to feel love, to be loved.

And how to love.

I ponder.

Is love like the tragical tale of Romeo and Juliet? 

Is it young, quick, and naive?

Is love like the tale of Heathcliff and Catherine?

Is it needy, obsessive, and impenetrable that even death can't do it part?

Or is love like the risqué tale of Christian and Anastasia?

Is it dominating, daring, and purely about sex?

What even is love?

What shade is love?

Usually, the first color that slides into mind when I think of love is red.

But doesn't red come in different shades?

There's red, dark red, crimson, maroon, burgundy, cherry... 

So... is love the same?

Does it come in different shades as red does?

But what are the shades of love?

What are the light shades of love that are simply pure bliss?

What are the dark shades of love that are simply pure agony?

What's the perfect shade of love?

What's the shade of love that creates that perfect shade of red? Where red is purely red and nothing else?

What is love?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

If I were to be love, I wouldn't want the moon to represent me.

As inconstant as the moon is, if her pale, silvery self were to represent me—to represent love— I'd just be known as a player.

A slut.

A whore.

A bitch.

I'd be known as any other girl in this world.

If the moon were to be love, love would change. 

Love will alter.

Love will vary.

Love will be unpredictable.

If I were to be love whose symbol is not the heart but the moon, my love would change.

My love will alter.

My love will vary.

 My love will be very unpredictable.

But if I were to be love whose symbol is the ever-changing moon, would you still love me the same?

The one who vowed to finish me to the end?

The one who vowed to continue this journey with me?

The one who vowed to read and analyze every bit of me to understand the person I was, the person I am, and the person I will be?

Even if I was the moon, ever-changing from new, crescent, quarter, and full, would you still love me the same?

If I were to be love, would I be able to be loved?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

If I were to be love... 

If I were to be love... 

If I were to be love... 

If I were to be love... 

If I were to be love... 

I wonder if I will be loved.