To love her not because she is the synonym you seek to a pretty sight;
or because her eyes fill your world with a light only the heavens are lit with;
not even because when she smiles, she tosses your heart like a silver coin hanging in air
and your life depends upon the which side the coin shows up – heads you die, tails you were dead already.
to love her, because she lets you.
There are, and will be, millions who will fall short of what this girl will let you attain.
There are the unfortunates, the uncared for, the unloved; there are the broken, the lovelost, the lovelorn.
The ones who find love are not the ones with a heart, but ones who have found a way to their heart,
a key to that mysterious thing which throbs inside them,
a handshake with that irony.
The rest of us face the street that is swarmed with things we will never understand, or try to.
The rest don’t want to be told they need to find the key.
They believe the heart is an open jail;
a matchbox with no matchsticks, waiting to be lit;
a workshop of futility.
We stare from a window that overlooks the street of desires; you have long walked that street.
We climb the steep hill that leads to the side of you we shall never see; you have long side-stepped that hill of exchanges.
We are gasping at the footpath of joy we cannot walk; you have long taken the crutches with you..
— By Ashish Bandooni