You, I’ve tried searching you in the lost pages of a forgotten journal;
Amidst impediments and lost letters,
Amidst bristling showers and shriveled leaves.
You come and go as a lucid daydream, as a concept to the mind but wither away to the touch, my touch.
Where must I find you? How must I grasp you?

Raindrops and kisses, I heard that’s how I must feel you. You hide in Neruda’s lines,
hide in each stroke of Margrette’s brush on the canvas.
You’re a painted image, intricacies, and flaws within.

“Where do I find Love?” So I asked maa once, Presley playing in the background.
As if reminiscing newfound memories, maa left out a chuckle.
“Love finds you, Love sees you and Love reminds you to put to rest all that is not for the sake of it.
Selfless and selfish, affectionate and affecting,
Love is loud, very loud, and sometimes a screaming silence.
Love hides in letters to the departed hides in epitaphs and guilty flowers.
In small gestures to strangers alike.
Love foils itself in what you feel for the homeless mother, for the limbless child across the street.
Love hides, yes, under plain sight.
She’s in your hobby for collecting stamps, in your stored away childhood journal.
She’s your fondness for Beethoven’s Symphonies.
Irrevocable and unconditional. That’s what Love is.
Big words? So is Love, a cascade of gestures filtered to fit into four mere letters.”
All is now but a distant memory, and love, distant.