Love - Perspective of a Poet

"I am the poet in her dreams" ~

Love - Perspective of a Poet

I stumbled upon a man walking on the streets—sheets in his left hand, a pen in his pocket, his other hand painting in the air, as if drawing someone with his fingers. I couldn’t hold myself back; I had to start a conversation. A simple "Hello" was all it took. A smile bloomed on his cheeks, as if he had been waiting for someone to talk to him.

"What are you making with your fingers, in the air?" I asked.

"I am drawing the whispers from her mouth, reaching directly to my ears."

I did not exclaim, but I smiled. I looked at the papers in his hand—words covered them. I assumed him to be a poet, a lover, a dreamer. A small question brewed in my mind, and I had to speak.

"Are you in love?" My voice was clear.

The man shook his head. "No," he said, "but there is something you should hear. Stranger, what do you think love is?"

Being clueless, I let him speak.

"The sparkle in her eyes is like the stars on a cloudy night. You hope for the best—to see them twice, thrice. One glimpse is enough to make you believe the clouds will pass, that you finally deserve a clear night. But the clouds return, and you lose the sight. You wish to see them again, but they disappear with the night.

Then a new day comes. You receive a letter. You open your mailbox, flip the envelope, your face lights up at the sight of the custom closing pin—you know it’s from her. Hope wins. You take the envelope to your desk, your heartbeat rising. With every word you read, you hear her voice in your mind. You imitate her as you read. You grow anxious at every full stop, not ready for the last one. So you don’t finish the letter; you start over again. This act takes hours and hours. Then, finally, you decide to reach the last full stop. Your hands tremble. Your emotions shake. You close the envelope, place your hands on the desk. The silence is filled with thoughts—every sentence, every emotion, small gestures, her mood. You feel it all.

Is that love?"

The man was interrupted. "Stranger, listen to me clearly."

He walked over to a lonely bench and took a seat. I sat beside him, watching his hands as he got lost in thought and spoke again.

I zoned out. What is Love? The feeling of wanting another kiss just after you get one? The feeling of holding her hands, buying her gifts, walking on a glowing street, her hands in your arms? The trust, the pride—feeling like the greatest man on earth? Not ready for the full stop, you find new topics, new stories to cherish together. But then the clouds return, and you lose the sparkle. You say goodbye. The night passes. You wake up to a new day, ready for another envelope. But the mailbox is empty. Your hope fades. You think of her all day.

"Hey? Are you even listening to me?" the stranger asked.

I nodded, and he continued...

Written By: Chirag