I have always been aware of the thin line between falling in love with a person and loving them. There are many I love and would be happy to give anything up for. And many versions of them I have fallen in love with.
The guy with a perfectly calligraphic tattoo on his fair shoulder blades, playing with his dog has a piece of my heart. I would always sit with a cup of coffee on the varendah, pretending to watch the sun merge with the horizon, just to trace the lines of his tattoo from the corner of my eyes. Can a fascinated stalker be more subtle about art, be it on the skin than on the canvas? Some other corner of my heart has been occupied by the old couple who visits the cafe in the corner every Sunday at five. I would have asked them the reason of their weekend ritual. Why would they walk down all the way to this tiny cafe with just three tables when they could simply order it home. I suppose, going out on dates does not need an age barrier. It simply needs that young sweet summer love. Love as pure as the dawn of the spring after the chilly withered winter snow. I have always fallen in love with the beauty that love brings. The joy and laughter it can spread amongst the hearts. The hope that it can flicker with the little promises. So much so that I refuse to acknowledge it’s shadowed version. The horrors that it has the power to rain upon me.