Love and Rejection—If It’s Even Real

It’s raining elegantly here—curtains withdrawn and silk undressed. Moments under the silver roof and the hostile curtains. Whispers are rare and each sound is nothing but a repeated rejection—those wanderers will never understand.

To love is to be hurt over and over again. Is life a gift only to be crippled by the emotions of regret and the singular songs that are to make love tonight? And love is like an undecorated room with slippery emotions. A second later—one tries to dream, to deserve the best in life but it is all a lie—they say.

It’s never been true—true love or a father’s kiss. These walls have decayed and the sonnets have re-written itself a new sonnet. How do I continue breathing when the lungs hurt and they cry each time the air reciprocates life which is never meant to be? Everyone is running after it yet no one even understands—love or a lie which is such important in our lives.

And to ask of an unloved leaf, sailors and children in denial and hunger—what is love or if love is even a thing out of nowhere that one may ask. Expressions change and so does the cloud that wanders on top of us each night—those glamorous and sensual darkness inside the room that has its walls singing our names.

You said that love was a beautiful thing and you made me fly with it. Such securely tied to the concrete emotions, I’m just an underserving human out of unfaithful love making just for one casual night. And if one were to compel me into believing, never did the winds love me or if anything, the tides that always rushed against me.

The angels are flying but the sincerity of their hearts—there isn’t one and the fairy tales are a bold lie. Everyone is getting dependent on it—dying out of love and affection, pure suffocation—manic towels. To reason with what was never meant to be, sigh—I’m not even wearing any perfume and still, to the nearest scent that is in rejection.

Why is it that we desire love when the basics of life are denied under each lung? All that she does—sleep with her new lover over and over again while Romeo sits and he waits for her under the skies out of haven. There is no butterfly and the winds have parted—for the silver rings of virginity have been betrayed.

Hope is nothing but a rhetoric used to make us feel good when each heart has been stabbed upon and as the clouds are separated with Juliet—abandoned with nothing but a thin line of poetry. And he will not stop writing about it. It’s just like the dream, in which the dreamer has his heart flying—unconditional hate and impolite feelings.

Sensational grief and untrue emotions—those that define humans and the act that has each skin running after love and sex. It’s a game—now that life is as probable as the next star and Juliet who is a deceive in each love story. She is just—never will she be satisfied with one lover. But to love is to drown in the same lake over and over again.

--Yogesh Chandra