Whenever I Write

P.S Every Form Of Art I Do Will Always Be About You

"What is love?"

The question had me stumped. How does one define love? Where do I find a definite definition of love?

I tried consulting a movie and it told me that love is the effort you put in. The way you make time for a person even if you're tired. "What is love if it isn't the effort you put in?" The movie asked me as it ended.

But the thing is, I came to the movie for an answer, not to get bombarded with another question.

So I consult a book. And it told me that love is a sacrifice. It's the compromise you do willingly for your love. "If love isn't about adjusting to make your significant other feel love, then what is it?"

And just like that, I find myself scratching my head. If only these things would stop asking me questions, I'd be done by now.

Lastly, I consult a poem. It told me that love is found within the universe. That just like the universe, we should always have their best interest at heart.

No questions this time, but no definite answer either. Maybe I should just give up?

I glance at the familiar face sleeping beside me. Very often, when I write about love I think about you, hiding my love for you in between carefully woven poems.

Every time I try to write, I notice some keys on my busted keyboard go missing and the letters available seem to only spell words like "love", "beautiful", "marvelous," "silly", "funny, "kind," and "you".

When I try writing with a pen, the ink blots on the paper take form of little hearts and drawings of things you like.

I am fully aware of what love is. But I don't want to be known as the author who knows nothing but to keep translating my love for you into my work, so I tightly grip on the pen with absolutely no intention of writing about you. I let the pen float around the page, like a ballerina gracefully prancing it's way to the end of a special number.

Instead of poems, there were a few doodles, gibberish, and whatever that thing is. I laugh as it reminds me why writing is the only form of art I make.

Without skipping a beat, I stand up from my old wooden desk and walk up to our bed. Clutching the page to my chest, I stay to savor these peaceful moments. And with a full heart, I return to my desk. I place my fingers on the keyboard and start writing words like "love", "beautiful", "marvelous," "silly", "funny", "kind," and most importantly,

"You".