I am just trying to write a love story

I am just trying to write a love story

but out of ideas for one, because love

is an intertwining series of conversations,

times together, and some magic formula with

sugars and salts. Many of them. Mixed.

But then I went to the aquarium, as planned,

to meet a friend from the past, forgetting the story. Surprisingly,

five-hundred people were there with me, on an otherwise

quiet, pleasant afternoon. I want nothing

more than some time to catch up on

old things. So, there I was: trying to suffuse

myself through the crowd, thinking that

I need many, many lubricants to sift through the

tough crowd. The breathes, the air, so suffocating,

but yet so invigorating. The fish above me, swimming

through the water currents, forgetting its

last moments, and sees nothing but fresh views of

people — like a person who, few seconds ago, tries to pickpocket?

Now a clean man, an ordinary man.

But that is just it! Is love not

just a series of greys, some faint-hearted reds,

and all pure whites? And all of what causes the

meet of hearts is the wanting for

a story to write. A story to tell later. So salt does not

matter; so sugar does not matter; so

what do you want?

My friend was not there in the aquarium,

figured he left me for my own musings,

for my story to write, starting now.