Love is a vessel of sparkling wonder, but it leaks under my touch, and I see the end tapering-growing thin, cold, and wonderless. Love is like that, in a way that it comes in a limited proportion to last you a lifetime, but I’m the kind of person to exhaust it all in the first 6 months. And thus, love grows old before I did-wrinkled, feeble, just sitting sipping its last few breaths.
We were all like flames dwindling down to ashes at the end of it. Coming down to realisation that the excitement died down with the weather of June, carried away by the sweltering heat of May. And I loved you a few days before, only now it all seems like a few moons of bad decisions and hopeless romance.
Breakups are always cruel. “Love ran out”, I’d say, almost always followed by silence on the other side and disbelieving gasps. But love is like that, you don’t get to contain it in your flask without having it evaporating away and I told you some nights ago that I was leaving when it all dried out.
I cannot keep flowers (love) alive, not in a deserted heart like mine, so don’t hold on now.