I’ve spent the past eight months
questioning what love was about, and why
my mother cried herself to sleep at night.
On those thought-filled nights, we both had stuffy noses,
and i learnt that sadness was very much like a sickness.
When I asked my father how he felt towards his wife,
he told me he couldn’t think about it
or else he’d hit her.
The next morning, my mothers cheek was rosy
as though the winter’s wind had nipped at her skin for too long.
That day, i learnt there were two different types of cold.
In the span of crossed out calendar days,
i began to watch my parents love for each other dwindle
like a lit match nearing its end.
My heart soon began to do the same.
On this day, my parents taught me nothing more about love,
other than the fact that
it is human kinds most romanticized pain.