Everyone deserves to be loved, and I owe it to everyone that I love them.
Maybe it was something you did, something you said, something I am not, something very obscure- but I tend to love everyone. People have their stories and like a kleptomaniac, I make them my own, without knowing that the effect they have on me take the people away and ruin the feeling.
The magnetism of your stories and the nonchalance of your demeanour make me want to fill in a gap in you, which only I perceive is empty. You don’t invite me, I stand by your door and wait, or even worse, hope for you to let me in. I don’t take the no as a no; or a goodbye as a cue to leave. Your words are just reason for me to collapse into a habit that is as addictive as gambling- even if I lose, I come back to play my chances in the hope that one day, you’ll overfill my time.
This isn’t a romantic love. I don’t see myself spending sleepless night wanting your skin on mine. I wish it was though. Our ways would have been charted easier. This love is unfulfilled because there is no name to it, no convention. I worry for you, I crave for the conversation- and I am left heartbroken should you not reciprocate. I call it love because of the effect it has on me, and because I find no other name suitable.
There is no exclusivity to this feeling. You are one of the many who I worry about. But you’re also the only special one. It’s a love beyond comprehension.
Maybe that’s why I’m more confident about it. I can manipulate this.
But I love you, let me assure you. And even if I try not to, even if you spurn my affection, even if I walk away, even if you rip my innards with your words and freeze the blood with your silence, I will love you.