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.


( currents of time ) by · topographe
( heartbreak ) by · topographe
( i am no more ) by · topographe
(remnants of a dream) by · topographe
( unspoken ) by ·jess ▲
(holes) by · topographe
( a love confession ) by · topographe
(the new year ball drop) by · topographe
(december 11th) by · topographe
(self-harm) by · topographe