Your Mother fed you stories about
a Prince Charming who’ll kiss you and
wake you up to take you away from
everything that’s wrong with this wretched
world. And when your parents screamed at
each other late at night, you pretended to
be asleep: you waited for someone, anyone,
who’ll hold your hands and sneak you out
to somewhere where noise doesn’t drown.
And when you sit crossed-legs at remote
cafes, reading Orwell with a sigh, you
expect to meet someone. All the stories
that you’ve been chewing about grand
romantic gestures and a blue-eyed stranger
falls flat on its face because you know
it’s not real. When I met you, you told me
Eiffel Tower is overrated, and romance is dead.
And I told you how love is nothing but
a combination of three chemicals acting funny
in our head. But yet, you caress my earlobe
and talk for whole five minutes about its shape.
And I — I look at you shivering at night from fear,
wondering if I can hold you to a deep sleep.
When you read to me, I wonder if you still
think about fairy tales. I wonder if
you realize this is not one. When I kiss you,
our moans are filled with terror. And when I hold
you, I do it like it’s the last time, because
one day we’ll wake up from this.
In this story, there’s no Prince Charming.
In this story, there’s no saving.
In this story, there’s just us,
until there isn’t.

~ The Honest Musing