What am I made for, if not love?
Tonight takes away too much from me, but this loss only brings me closer to sanity. You can't pierce again into something that's been pierced once. That place is already occupied.
But you still pay the price for the first occupancy and the attempt of a second one. Folly. Folly I tell you, will be the death of me.
Why can people never see the kind of abundance you have? Yes, you. The abundance of importance a comma holds can never be replaced with that of a period. Each is fulfilling to what it is, and happily what it's supposed to be.
Yet every here and now you are expected to fill water into oceans when you are wine for wooden barrels, left to age in timeless glory. Why?
Love was never supposed to be easy. Or was it? I would have known if I had 20 more years of lifespan from 20 years ago. I would have been 43, and thriving, probably with someone who would simply love me for who I am.
Nothing too complicated here. Someone who could love me like a warm blanket during heavy rains which loves its owner just right. Someone who looks at you like a child chancing upon a comet for the first time in a starless night.
Maybe love made me the person of passion that I am. Or maybe I was coaxed to believe what was served to me was love itself all this time. Boiling. Glaring. Sizzling. Burning. Scalding. A sickening Crimson. Painful to all five senses. An intensity unexplained from the beginning of man. I like to think that whatever was served to me was not what the cook thought I wanted in the way they cooked. That's how I console my frangible self. Not my fault they've never cooked well in their life. Ever.
None have accomplished the Goldilocks temperature. The "Mmm, just right!" temperature.
Now I get it! See, it's basic science. When your tongue touches something hot, your taste buds lose their sense of taste. We may now establish that all these high and mighty cooks only presumed the highest color saturation and the hottest temperature is what I'm looking for. That's what I was taught to look for. And maybe that's not where my palate is meant to lean. Because whatever this is on my plate only burns my tongue. And now I have lost sense of taste. And because I have lost sense of taste, I no longer know what to consume in a way that won't kill me, to say the least.
Don't blame me now okay? I am a lover girl. I was born out of love, so I am made to be loved. The universe is my womb and its people(the right ones), my umbilical cord. A pure lover girl but a wannabe connoisseur who wanna be a connoisseur. *finger guns*
I want to be the real thing. I want to be Anton Ego from Ratatouille who recognizes a decades-old love from one bite. I want my love to taste like it was my first and last meal from my first life to this one.
Do you know what I would give for that holy taste of consistency and not scarcely arranged extravagance? I don't know but I would just about give into the cook who prepared food for me. My taste. My appetite. My "Just right" temperature. Everything handmade from the hands made for me. A restaurant with just one culinarian who serves only me.
Isn't that the prettiest dream, just like I am? Isn't that why it hurts you just as much as its beauty?
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