“Define me?”
“A part of me?”
“Why not whole?”

Well, a part of me still considers it a dream, and a part of me knows it has ended. I’m no more a part of you, like you would say, and not obviously whole of you, like I wished.
As I write today, bear with me, because I’m going to tell you about a love so dangerous that it doesn’t kill you at the end.

Her: Why do you write about one-sided love all the time? Isn’t the world not a massively distressing baboon already, do we need more happiness ending, do we, I don’t know, you tell me?
Should we not look outside of our homes, and rescue those who need to be saved or do something that doesn’t tear away this earth, or should we just sit here, in this malignancy that the world has ended if we did not receive love from the other end, romantically. Because my friend, love is always there, maybe spiritually or love from our peers, families, pets? what not? Do you really need a significant other? do you?

I uttered and stuttered for a word that maybe hasn’t been made up yet, and continued to gaze at her persona, I was searching for a word that would define her, I wish I’d come with an appropriate line that would make her know that it had not bothered me, but I stand firm on my interests and my poetry themes, but it did, not what she said, but she, her, she bothered me. She bothered me so much that I wanted to ask her if she has ever fallen in love, if she had ever experienced one sided love, if she had ever known a person she’d die for, I wanted to ask her so much, but I didn’t, I felt it would really be incorrect to ask her so while she’s speaking this at the podium, while I had bunked my other lecture to attend this poetry workshop. What she said, was not poetry, what she said was anti-poetry, what does she know about poetry if,
What does she know about poetry if she didn’t even stammer while saying one-sided,
What does she know if she didn’t look up to find if there’s that someone listening to her,
What does she know if she hasn’t burnt her soul with the carcass of a pigeon in search for her love, if she hasn’t tried wasting months in buying the perfect rose for them, if she hasn’t hidden away all her doomed and damned scars and started afresh to be with them, if she hasn’t bared it all, naked, in from of them, for all the times they’d ask her if she’s okay, I didn’t know if the girl standing on stage narrating her views like they were a grandma’s brutal homicidal story and invalidating every poet that hasn’t ever looked up the meaning of poetry but considers their broken heart a poet, knows how to love.
But that was it. I had partially fallen, not enough to scatter myself on the ground, but enough to not able to collect my minds that were enchanted by her and were dying to fall, my intellect that would be willing to ask her the dumbest questions if she finds them funny, my legs that were shaking, my hands that were feeling short, and…not anything else, I promise, not any of my other organ felt for her, maybe a little..but in a romantic way.

This marked my first meeting with her, and I think I’ve created the difference between her aura and mine, I was a crappy believer of love, and she was she, majestic. The times I had spent without knowing her was waste of my time. I think I’d known her from before, it had a little soulmates ring to it, our relationship.

Years after that first meeting, as I write this, I know three things:
1. She knew one-sided love. (at that time)
2. She knew love. (at that time)
3. I didn’t know anything. (still don’t)

I wish I could tell her how I felt for her in the first meeting itself and loved her all through my life, but it didn’t happen, what happened was….
I asked her if she knew love at all, after searching for her on facebook, chatting with her, faking it that I loved what she said on stage, complementing her on her rude tone, and just calling her cool, repeatedly, instead of pretty, beautiful or whatever she was, I finally gathered the courage to ask her.

Her: What do you know about love while asking me?
Me: I just disagree with your remarks, I think one sided love is more vicious than any other poison or threat to our world, don’t you think heartbreaks are the most cruel of calamities? What do we know about world at all, if we hadn’t ever wished it to be perfect, and that thought always comes in love.
Her: I kno..
Me:(intervened) I know that too, world peace is necessary and blah blah blah, but tell me as the girl sitting right next to a man who’s been so nice to her, chatting with her all day since months, and tell me you don’t feel love..
Her: Chatting is love? Isn’t it, for you? To just let the other know that you exist, that’s fucking attachment, that’s fucking a habit you’re talking about, sorry to burst your bubble, but this isn’t love.
Love is when you feel intimacy beyond just touching or talking, when you know you’d jump off the building if they jump, or when you know you’d stop rains if it takes that to make them smile, this is what you minimalists know about love, chat all day, fuck all night, and then die happily, you do not know how to love, it’s not love what you feel, you people talk to a person, she breaks your heart by deciding to not talk to you back, and you mourn the death of that conversation, you do not how to love a person after that, you do not know how to stay bounded in the lines of the clouds they had created when they were here, you do not know how to get your heart broken and still love with every piece of it, you do not know anything,
Romeo died for Juliet, Van Gogh teared his ear as a souvenir to his lover, Cleopatra died for love, that’s love, when you like a person beyond their legitimacy, beyond their vows, you guys do not how to love, and that saddens me, that’s why I spoke about loving the world instead, in hope that you at least fall for it completely. Love is altruism, and not wanting your efforts to be returned.
I always thought you were a poet, but maybe you just write words that impresses women, consider loving women when they aren’t impressed, I’d fall for your words then, maybe.

I had written about her many times, but what she said was beyond my reach, beyond what I had ever imagined to love her like, maybe I’m too poetic, but she was a poem herself. Poems often teach men how to live, how to fight, she taught me how to die, that too happily.

I loved her, maybe more than she described, maybe more than any enigma could keep safe, maybe more than any theory could conceptualize, more than anthing that Romeo had died for, more than Shakespeare in love, I loved her and whilst she taught me how to weave this necklace around my neck that would choke me after and despite that I’d stay in my peace, I loved her. And she loved me back, Yes, She loved me back.
When I hugged her, she hugged tighter, when I kissed her, her lips went wet, when I touched her, she’d unbutton her shirt, and when I didn’t know what to say. she’d know what I had nothing to say about. Her love was greater, maybe because she had known it longer, but mine was close.

Her: Define me?
Me: A part of me?
Her: Why not whole?
These were her words, that’d often puzzle me, as proximity is dangerous to a hungry lion, questions on my love were a threat to me, she’s often ask me if I loved her completely, and I’d tell her that she’s a part of me, which I thought was the greatest of love, to take someone and make them a part of you, and she had nothing but furious comments on this, and ask me that why can’t she be whole of me, I thought my love was incomplete, that I had learned nothing, I still knew nothing about my muse, I still love not a love that is true. And in all my sophistry, I couldn’t know how to make someone ME.
In all my letters that’d come with a rose at your doorsteps, I had only asked you if I’m you, whole of you, and yet you only ranted about my choice of flowers.
You were a piece of anaphora I had renounced all my life, and I were a prose you could not fit in your poem, and yet saved it as a draft to publish later, I never got published. Am I still saved?

And now that you aren’t here, I want to ask you just 10 questions, answer judiciously-
1. Was the love we loved was a lie?
2. Your car broke on a Sunday in summer, you told me you wanted to come to me, was your car really broke?
3. You have found someone else, does he know the kind of love you want?
4. Your watch is with me, the one you gave me to match my time with you when you were away, should I stop it? Or should I let it know that the time did not ever mwtch either, I was a minute late always, or maybe you were some seconds away..
5. Do you still read my letters?
6. Does your nose bleed too when he smiles?
7. Do you fucking love him?
8. Isn’t it attraction now?
9. I sent you a card, wishing you a good life ahead, did you tear it away, or had it framed?
10. When will you be back?

I think I have known love too much, to forget you. It has been wonderful, magical, charismatic to be with you. I have learned my lesson, you are the WHOLE OF ME,
End this, and come back now!