he loves love

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He loves love in the morning, when it's not quite bright out just yet; when sunshine timidly peeks through clouds, and oceans of pink-orange-blue tint the sky. Love is still in the cusp of waking, prying one eye open while the other stays closed. Under the rays of light shining on his sheets, love is vulnerable and hesitant, young and innocent, hopeful and brave — everything he wishes love can forever be. But forever is fleeting and he only has now, this very moment, to love love before it turns and rolls with the morning tide. He threads his fingers around love gently (reverently), careful not to jostle or wake. It is in-between the sunshine and sheets that love feels closest to him, even if all love does is lie entangled with his heartstrings. (He can never bring himself to pull it all away.)

He loves love in the noon, when the sun blazes down on him. Love follows in his footsteps, always just a few steps behind, yet still (as always) out of reach like his noon-time shadow gliding across the pavement. Love is in-sync but off-beat, with him but not in him, and it makes his fingers itch to crawl the sidewalks for that missing piece. But love, like the bolstering heat on his skin and the rough granite against his shoes, is unforgiving. Love in the noon plays hard-to-get, except instead of hard it is downright impossible, because all his hands can grasp is empty space. The lunchtime crowd pushes past him and all he can go is be carried away with the flow. He reaches for love as it slips past his fingers. It mingles with other lost loves in a sea of footsteps and shadows, while he feels the burden of its absence heavy in his chest. The cracks on the pavement mirror the empty fissures that shake him to the very core, from the tips of his fingers to the hollow of his soul. (It has always been just a little bit overwhelming.)

He loves love in the evening, when the moon comes out to play as the stars dance around it. His eyes burn holes into the night sky as he soaks the moonlight in, memorising this feeling of serenity that shrinks him as a mere point in a vast plane of cosmos and galaxies that go beyond his comprehension. Love wraps around him like a blanket shielding him from the chilly air, moulding against him to fill his spaces and gaps. There is an aching contentedness that battles in him, a little paradox of fully empty and happily sad, like he is both nowhere and somewhere all at once; like has has had and lost in the same moment and he's not quite certain where he ends and where Love begins. They are entangled in each other, love crawling underneath his skin as if it belonged there, choking him, caressing him, suffocating him, holding him — it is the fear of love, he thinks, that makes him wrap his arms around himself. (There should be nothing to fear, he thinks, except fear itself.) 

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A/N: this is terribly short, i know, but i may just have forgotten how to write with how long it's been, so apologies for that.

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⏰ Last updated: Nov 30, 2015 ⏰

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