I'll Always Love You

Her name prints a distinct image in my mind, one that is too private to share yet too common in type. Her eyes were deep, not in the sense that I could fall into them, but in a way that they conveyed meaning way better than her words could. I see her as a ghost, not knowing how aghast I'd be if she would actually turn up in front of me again. I yearn for that lock on my heart, I yearn for that reach to my mind, I yearn for that confidence while naked, and I desire that scent when I am discomfited.


Loving somebody might never be a mistake one wilfully makes, however, I'd argue that love is never a mistake. I've been told love revolves around my writing a lot, which means that I have either been terribly loved or have bonded unloved. And yet, neither of them is true.


The fact is that I am obsessed with love. The sheer idea of it; its hiraeth and its resplendency. I shall forever be in debt of love - not as an entity, but as a commodity. If I could, I'd loan it to sell myself, and then pay it back to find a different version of my own self. For love transforms a man, and lack of it transmutes it. There is a subtle difference in both, in my opinion. While both are involuntary, transformation is more cognizant in nature.


So as I look outside the window, I finally see love again. Not for me, or for others, but in general. I understand the meaning of the idiom 'love is in the air.' It doesn't mean everyone is in love with someone, nor does it mean that there is a season of romance ongoing. The idiom simply means that if you look around, you'll find enough love to keep you going. If you look at it, it will beset on you.


And therein lies my growth, and despite however many images she prints in my head, the crude reality of it still pangs. Nevertheless, I refuse to blame the past as it gave me a reservoir of memoirs which are out in the open, and I refuse to blame her as she gave me a well of memories I can fill out from. And that is the true idea of love - together, apart, one or separate - if you find enough in the air around you, you share the same love with them, for everywhere the air is also the same.


Love may not be actions, or words, or even presence. Love may be the breeze that brings a memory or a slight pang of innocent jealousy. Love may be the everlasting prints in indelible ink that flow through my heart, but it will never be like a spare part of a machine, replaced and repaired. Love is layer upon layer of itself, of all kinds, of all types, and it is a force that refuels from within. It is not replaced or repeated; and while it may swell or shrink, it shall never diminish.


To you, and to her, and to everyone.


I'll always love you.

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