Dear, honey, long distance correspondences, kindling tinder, terrible poetry, unsinkable ships and anchors, doodles and hearts, jingles and hums, back of the mind, out of the world.

Beaches, pine trees, beverages, tousled hair, slipping sleeves, lipstick stains, glitter, candid shots at exotic locations, whispers, laughter and two straws in a single Starbucks. Insta-love.

Comets, twilight, heartbeats, ineffable memories, portals, black holes, the cosmos, rain, rust and stardust. Pitch black, caverns, demons and wings, eternal inferno.

Forbidden, reckless love, star-crossed, electric, blurry vision, head-over-heels, collapsing walls and waterfalls, thunder bolts, whirlwinds, tangled hair, sweet apologies, wet tongues, wings, moths to flame.

Unsaid words, hearts on sleeves, broken glass, scars waiting to be caressed, smoke and needles, tripping toes and tears, ribcages and skulls, pain, running makeup, broken nails, blades and blood, emptiness, lost identities, needy longing, blacks, blues and greys, stitches, clocks, infinity, pitch black.

Vertigo, nausea, perspiration, déjà vu, sleep, dreams, abandonment, warriors and saviours, lies and bitter truths, driving through pitch black tunnels, reemerging on quiet highways, worn soundtracks, wind in the face, soaring wings.

Overhanging bridges in windows, lazy mornings beneath the sheets, hills behind thick mist, strolls, morning dew, dandelions, wind in the face, sun setting the hair ablaze, moist pecks.

Overreaching branches, blossoms, nectar, roses and petals, rustling leaves, the hues of autumn and spring, desolate fields, whiffs of fragrances, horizon kisses.

Solitary passages, unspoken things, sideway glances, stolen glimpses, edging closer, brushing fingers, dimples, ruffling hair, butterflies.

Satins and silks, melting candles, spells, craving touches, edgy twitches, leaning in, sighs in the eardrums, creaking beds, fervent shadows and locked doors.

Crescent moons and fishing hooks, bay windows, lazy morning beneath sheets, reciting poetry, dog eared pages, marginalia, sad movies, hopeless romances, timeless sitcoms, floating feathers, rain pattered windows, rhythms, interlinked fingers and the warmth of naked bodies.

 When one genuinely feels something, you can see it. But if anyone ever had to try too hard put it in perfect words, it fled them the moment they did, so what’s most effortless is what’s closest to home.

Modern young poets try too hard to be romantic. Romantics are conceited, they seek to reflect their virtuous outlook on life and garner admiration through praise of ‘beauty’. They are gript with a need to adorn beauty with words that do little justice.

Here’s a fresh perspective.

Walt Whitman’s, A Glimpse:

A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

How beautiful that he makes the feeling reverberate with you without once using any of the words from the beginning of this article. He doesn’t alienate love from the hustle of life- it partakes in an earthly harmony. Its origins aren’t in castles in the sky but in the commonplaces of life, one doesn’t encounter it at junctures as love itself is the ship on voyage.

This isn’t a cry for novelty, but for perspective. So do not write about love until you’re capable of drawing from your own well, but if you do write to meet expectations, it’ll remain on paper, perhaps creative genius, but never touching.

Gossip Girl

Ankita Goyal