sorrowful meadows

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i crave love. maybe something’s wrong with me, but the best moments where im happy are spent thinking about love. i live to love; but with so many people ‘loving’ each other, it feels misconstrued to call what i want ‘love’.

i see a girl in my deepest conscious. i want to love her, but she is faceless. a flower without petals. i hold onto her thorns hoping to find the bud to her flower. i feel that others label love as something that is. friends just love their girlfriends. my parents just love each other. i just love my siblings—but that’s not what im craving. this love is for what is or what will be, but i long for how it happens.

i find comfort in the art of origami. i haven’t kept a single finished piece to myself though. what makes me love origami isn’t the finished piece. although it’s pretty to look at, i don’t care for the result. in it, i see the work i put in to produce it. the love i crave is in learning her favorite foods. it’s in finding out what drives her to do what she does. it’s in seeking her favorite flowers. it’s admiring the blemishes that make her real. this love that wades in my mind leaving a murky puddle isn’t of her face—it’s the pursuit of who she is.

i fear love. it’s easy to fret making a lackluster crease, but it leaves you ignorant to the folds that make a piece distinct. it’s not who i’ll love that daunts me; it’s who i won’t. in each face i see lies a blossom; and i’m traversing flower fields as unique as the petals that make up each flower. i can pick every rose, tulip, geranium, violet, and lily, and yet drown in a sea of petunias, poppies, and flowers i’ll never name. i’m surrounded by meadows yet i’m still holding a budless stem.