“Love is a whirlwind”,
I told her.
And as an old tornado chaser,
I knew she couldn’t understand.

I was(am) a seeker of love, (in the Shakespearean sense)
a man who loved loving.
A drunkard for romance,
a junkie for lust.

There was(is) only one cure for me –
the subtle disease of adoration.

I wanted to love her even then,
barely having met each other,
to smoulder for her (more romantic with the u, more succulent).

But in the larger equation, I realize I probably haven’t loved anyone.

Love, as I have come to understand it, is an unquantifiable fondness for something or someone. Something unexplainable, something outside of reason. And for my every fondness, I have reasons. I suppose where I have strayed the closest to that literary love, that fire without explaination, is moments like this. Those seconds where I see

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