He told her to look at the moon,
This white serene fragment of something extraordinary, the Earth itself.
Or a symbol o’ love?
Something they both could savour, being away and far.
Just like he told her to not look at-
The other boys, specific movies, his brother’s inapt interest her construct
Or even roads!
So, she let him tie this red silken blind fold,
The colour of love.
A little too tight,
Over her eyes.
In this game of hide and seek,
They sought diverging edges of unmet parallel lines.
But that was hidden too well,
Amidst the overweighing compromises and rigid rules.
She had her own skills of disobedience.
She didn’t look at the moon,
Untouched by its significance.
What’s so romantic about the shape shifting moon, after all?
The shape of love on the other hand,
In her head,
Was stiff, a heart.
Or a spade, just without the stalk.
All was well, till it looked familiar to the mould.
Like those expectations,
Those ideas that were fed, not born.
‘Love comes with sparkles, gifts, words and roses!’
It came with thorns too.
The love disfigured.
The heart was no longer this inviolate little petal.
It was out of shape,
Slashed, scattered and splattered.
And with free falls,
Came collecting pieces, building walls,
Building prisons, building castles, hiring guards and inhibiting dragons.
To be safe
Or to keep the broken sharp shapes of love safe.
But, why does love have to fit within a single mould?
Why can’t we all shift it into the shape of a full moon?
Put the pieces together and mould it into a sphere!
So that it has no sharp edges to cut our own flesh,
No edges to keep it from going.
This spherical love will have no ends to it,
It will finally find its own infinity.
As to find something to love within is the greatest challenge.
It will roll with a gentle touch of a caring hand,
What joy would it be! To love without boundaries.
It would be unstoppable, on clear roads,
It would roll over the mountains and float on the roaring rivers.
It would be reckless.
The shape of love might come in an outline of a human,
In someone’s bewildering wide eyes or twisting tresses,
In the hills and valleys of their lips and beyond.
Or it might come in the winsome long whiskers of someone quite small.
It might be traced into your footsteps when you run,
Or in the inked letters, humming strings and painted suns.
Shape of love is a sphere, after all.
Like the pure drop of rain, before the free fall,
And falling, doesn’t ensure fracturing of these spheres,
It helps in adapting and the love reshapes.