Love stories! They are like broken glass beads thrown ashore to the dead sea! You, as a lone bystander, may happen to step upon the sharp ones every other fortnight! Then, you may bleed a little and your lips may sin to mumble a soft curse at their beauty. When that happens… don’t fret away from taking another step!

In every love story, there comes a time when jasmines begin to smell like lavenders. That’s when you must pick your tears up and run!

Why? 

Because nothing heals better than the sweet nectar which oozes out of those flowers… and healing, my friend, is a scary business!

Here’s a funny thing about scars! They walk the face of this planet with a tiny bag of peace hanging down their shoulders. When you happen to bump into one, the thorns may sting you for a second… but, sooner than you realise, you will find yourself swooning to the tunes of their tranquillising sorcery.

Having said that, love is a nightmare to the broken and boozed. It is the kind of torment which makes wolves howl on dark and lonely nights.

The worst part?

Once you trip and fall on the side of this road, you won’t wake up before dawn. Your eyes will be left yearning for the dark.

Befoolery, in our world, is a celebrated virtue… and love has always been a fool’s master trick!

So, for once, let yourself fall for the trickery and gasp at the magic. For once, make your jasmines smell like lavenders! Healing must be a scary business, but since when have the broken started shying away from fear, huh?

You were that lazy sip of wine under the beaming silver of falling stars. You would swirl on my skin, tingle my tongue and tease my throat till my lips would break into a dimming smile and my eyes would spill love.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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My fingers traced… they traced the chiseled edges of your jaw just like they run over the cracked hem of my wine glass.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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You were special…⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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You… you were the rare cassette. One that’s worthy of honoring every vintage collection. Kept in a case of shimmering gold; draped in velvet.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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You would sing the songs of pinching nostalgia, paint the walls with colors of retro sepia and calm my nerves like forbidden magic.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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You were rare…⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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But then… every writer has a fancy oil lamp in her room, and I am no exception!⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Every night, I feed some oil to its fire. It burns with somber brilliance and dies by midnight.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Every night, I stare at its dying flame like a doomed lunatic. I stare long enough for its soul to haunt my eyes every time I blink.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Every night, I witness fate! I listen to its hushed lessons as it howls back at me!⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Flames die, you see!⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Now… sitting beside those dying flames, sipping on wine out of my crooked wine glass and listening to a stuck cassette tape… I know what made you leave…⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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Flames died sooner than I wanted them to!⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
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