Not A Love Letter

Dear love,

Are you the happy mornings to which I wake up with a feeling of joy in my belly, the quick flushed smiles, the ray of golden sunshine peeping into my room, the absent minded brushing, the soft hidden chuckles, the happy sound of the phone buzzing or the loose strands of hair that fall over my forehead not making me twitch even in the hot summer months? Are you the gushing water that trickles down merrily from the shower pores, the drops of rain that roll down the window pane, the creaking sounds of the fan in lazy, listless afternoons, the smell of old books, the touch of soft leaves or the aroma of hot, brewing coffee? Are you these feelings of merriment in your initial days, when even the traffic signals don’t feel dreary, when the gloomiest cloud makes me smile, when bland food satisfies my apetite, when thunderstorms feel like music, when waiting isn’t tedious, when nights aren’t dark and drains aren’t dirty? Are you those gusts of wind that cool my face when I stand on my terrace staring at the bright city stretching out like a board game or the colors of highlighters that make the most monotonous book bearable, the purring of the newly born kittens or the vibrant note of a flute? Are you such happy things or are you the unending, unbearable dark night, the sounds of buses and trucks which are no more than sources of irritation? Are you the rays of lightning that streak across through the sky sharply as if cutting it into two just the way you keenly cut into our hearts?

Are you just a double sided sword which provides endless joy just to snatch it away in the cruelest way later? Are you an enigma, a corundum that paves its way into the lives of those who aren’t aware in the slightest way about the tempest that will rummage through their lives burying their souls under sorrowful debris?

You are the cranky cries of babies and the sharp coughs of the old, the suffocation amidst a crowd and the solitary bliss of an empty house, the aroma of freshly fried fitters and the foul smell of decaying meat, you are a virtue discovered every day, yet you are the mystery that remains unexplained.

Not with love,

Someone who's tried to unravel you.