FelixFelicis.

They say love is like magic…if that’s the case, then heartbreak is a curse... and I guess I’d be the Boy Who Lived. Living in a cupboard under the stairs seeking your attention…or maybe even some affection just as long as it was coming from your direction.

‘Cos every second I spend without you is much worse than the Cruciatus, now for the next 2 minutes I’ll be completely honest. I always thought we were destined, like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger…that we shared the deepest connection like cores shared between wands and phoenix feathers. Trying to deduce a way, magical or not that we could be closer. And if I had to describe how you make me feel…wingardium leviosa. Or maybe a dose of Felix Felicis. Because it must be illegal to feel this good from something you don’t have. When I see you…you’ve got me stupefied, jinxed into silence with jelly legs. Stuck in place like petrificus totalus and basilisk glares. In an instant, I have no fear of harm. Think of your smile…then Patronus charm. So I’m standing here, hoping I could tell you that the back of your head is RIDDIKULUS, like banishing monsters in closets…but I’m confunded. Worse than confused, ‘cos you’re sweeter than Honeydukes and I want to Time Turner every moment I ever spent with you.

I’m trying to alohamora the lock to your heart, wishing I could reducto the walls you’ve built around it so that the chase would be over like Seekers in Quidditch games. If it was ever broken…then reparo. If that doesn’t work, then spellotape and protego. Protect it with vigilance like goblins in Gringotts, constantly trying to get to know you better through your SIM card. Until the day that you let me into your Chamber of Secrets…and I could be the diary that replies back at the times you’re the weakest. For you, I would swim to the deepest depths of the darkest lake, past merfolk and grindylows. Fight past mythical creatures and fire breathing dragons with no championship to be aiming for. You are my Triwizard Champion, but with no one else in contention. So I feel obligated to mention…

You have me effectively disarmed and I’m under your spell…that’s clear as nighttime strolls in invisibility cloaks. And all I ask is that you put on the Sorting Hat, hoping that it tells you that you belong...in my house. ‘Cos I would sacrifice for you, similar to Dumbledore. Be the general of this man’s army and we can last forever like Nicolas Flamel and Sorcerer’s Stones. More than a timeline of all seven books, if each one was a horcrux made to keep us together…but better. So get the healers to lock me up in St. Mungo’s, because I am love sick. No potion can cure me, and what you’ve used is closer to the dark arts. But I’m willing to take the gamble like Exploding Snap with card sharks. So clearly, I’m see-through, almost feeling Nearly Headless. So I confess this all without veritaserum hoping that I won’t regret this. So I'm trying to find the Marauder's map to your soul…

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good”. Because I’m trying to steal your heart and provide a bandage…and if I ever succeed, then “mischief managed.”

IStillDon'tLoveYou..

At the time it seemed absurd, and I thought I just misheard when she told me that she loved me. Then I had to fight the urge, to repeat the same words that I knew she was expecting from me. So I mustered up the nerve, gave her the truth that she deserved and so I told her I don’t love you. But it’s not that I don’t love you, not that I can’t love you, it’s more of the fact that I don’t want to.

But this isn’t an apology, more like a request to be an anomaly. To take “love” and define it on our own terms. ‘Cos currently, I know there’s something wrong with me when I can write a definition like it’s homework. At this rate, it’s closer to make believe. But I’d turn Christopher Reeves, wear my heart on my sleeve, like Toronto players and a maple leaf. A cliché definition is all we’re really left with and I hate it. ‘Cos you alone make me feel like…some word that hasn’t even been invented yet…I’m infloveuated.

Because making up a word is my only option. ‘Cos love is now casual, thrown around with no need to be factual, and destroyed its original intent like antitoxin. So going by those standards, I bear my gold standard and say that I still can’t love you. But I would exchange eloquent banter, until I get shot down like Jordan Manners and I regret never having said I loved you…But the word is already dead to me. Though I’d repeat it for the sake of having more time with you, to convince you even just in passing through, that to me you’re beyond heavenly. Though I still can’t love you.

See, those who have ‘loved’ and have ‘been loved’ have already been through enough…They’ve been misused, mistreated, misunderstood, abused and ignored and dragged through the rough…patches of relationships. Through the rocky roads and nights spent in the solace of cookies and cream courtesy of Oreos and a broken heart. Crying with a runny nose, left only with tissues and tears when the relationship falls apart. So that’s why I just can’t love you…

But I must admit, you’re hard to quit ‘cos you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, since the day that I discovered poetry. Tryna catch signs, dodging landmines, forgetting there was a time when you didn’t come first for me. But you’re closer to my life line, try to cut mine…your scissors break like in Hercules. I don’t want to be your lover…I want to be more like the best of friends. ‘Cos in relationships, all it takes is one mistake for the best to end. And the words “I love you” won’t be enough for these two hearts and the rest to mend. And as your bestest friend, I’ll hold your heart next to mine in a chest with the best defense. But secretly, I just want to have a future with you. Regardless of the relationship we’d share for the years to come, now I’m seeming dumb, ‘cos I was the one there for you when you were back on the market in a game of one, that no one’s won.

So forget labeling affection, it only leads in misdirection, so trust that I’d avoid saying that line at all. Even with appropriate exclamation, it’s all in the interpretation of those 3 words that defines it all. I. Love. You.
3 words that only matter as much as it does to those involved. And trust me when I say it…‘cos it means I’d catch you every time you fall, answer the phone every time you call and share a personal moment with you from across the hall. But that doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same, yet I’d risk the potential pain, for all the potential gain, even when our backs are against the wall.

If only I could read your mind…I would ask if you were willing to help me redesign the term. See I don’t love you. I…can’t love you. And I don’t want to. You see…I’m already infloveuated.

Ms.Interpretation

Love. The one and only weakness of a Disney made Hercules. And this narcissistic juggernaut with too much certainty. At first I had no fear, till I ran into my dear, like the bumper of a van. Studied all that I could glean, from what little I could see like a lover of exams. But damn…

Compared to these girls that I’ve come across lately…she has me thinking maybe. Because never did she make me, pledge my allegiance to a singular. Just proud to be there like the parents of a winner. Yet me, I’m nothing but a sinner. Dowsing propane on the fires of hell, and crafting analogies and stories for these liars to tell. But the truth is still amongst them. And quickly it becomes them.

See, I love her…with all my heart. Every muscle, every beat. Every vessel, every ventricle. It doesn’t add up, but for her…I’d learn pi to a thousand some decimals, just to impress her. ‘Cos my life would seem lesser, if my life had less her.
And in her very own words, she designed. The prettiest of pictures. Like popular verses out of scripture, she had my attention.

She said…

That if I took her hand, she would lead me on the path to success. Closer to an angel, but a temptress no less. She’d protect me from the pain that would live inside my chest, if another human being ever put me to the test. And this sudden lack of rest, has me flirting with the most attractive relative of death. Though I fear if I let her hand go, then I’d Van Gogh myself.

So she whispered in my ear…
That I would be her man and that she could be my muse. She’d quote nothing but the truth, so I wouldn’t be a mute. With my voice and my words, she advised that I let myself be heard, and to never let another person estimate my worth. I looked her in her eyes and I asked her.

“Who are you?”
She said “I’m in your heart and your mind.”
“Are you God?”
She said “I don’t know…just reflect and determine what’s inside your soul.”

So I looked up above me to an image of her face with her name underneath it…Miss Interpretation. The partner I’ve been blessed with so I can study what’s around me…so I take her hand in mine and I thank her that she found me.