Love

They asked me, “What is love?” How can anyone truly define it? Without experiencing this nectar, I find myself without a real answer. If I had a lover, I might say that love is him. But instead, I cling to dreams  the hopes I call love. 

To me, love is what makes you stay when the world tries to pull you away. It’s sharing the last bite of your favorite meal, even when you’d rather keep it for yourself. It’s the freedom to be your most raw self, without fear of judgment. It’s the warmth of a smile that lingers, even after arguments over the smallest yet most significant things. Love is when I’m gone, yet I live on into someone’s soul, someone’s memory.

Love isn’t something you try twice; it happens just once, and when it does, it lasts forever. If it brings only pain and leaves you broken, it was never love. It’s amusing how people today dilute love’s essence into fleeting infatuations and shallow attachments. 

True love is never one-sided. It’s two people holding each other’s worlds together, even in silence. And perhaps that’s why I’ve never truly known it, maybe, because the world has buried love under such shallow, hollow definitions that I’ve never truly experienced what it was meant to be.

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