Back in the day, when sex wasn’t a score that validated your ‘cool quotient’, love skipped heartbeats and sent shivers down the spine.
Love was quaint and had oily, sticky plaits. It wore a Frock with polka dots.
Love called you after their parents fell asleep and whispered sweet nothings in a voice that made the planets align. Love sometimes sang your favorite song to help you sleep, but forgot the lyrics midway only to make up for it with the sound of their wheezing breath and stealthy murmur.
Love watched you fall asleep, and ruffled your hair, with their warm skin pressed against yours.
Love texted you from their mother’s phone and ensured you don’t skip breakfast.
Love stole sweaty kisses in the corridor and sometimes brushed against your cuffs when no one was looking.
Love waited for you in dark alleys with your heart in your mouth.
Love made you want to walk in the snow and stare right into the sun.
Love didn’t walk out. Love walked in and cooed, “I’m home. here, I brought you some cookies and wine”.
They tell me, love is sick and dying. They’ve replaced it with the new world order and modern rules of engagement. They call it dating, if you’re in a hurry, you can also go online and find them on apps, swiping right on the emptiness within.
Sex is easy, waiting is desperate, trying is chasing, caring is archaic, sweet is cheesy, chivalry is dead.
Meanwhile, love is sitting in a wheelchair, listening to “I do it for you”, by Bryan Adams and smiling at the two kids secretly holding hands under the jungle gym.
When love takes its last breath, I hope the kids still aren’t willing to let go.