Entry #2: A Myth We Memorize
261 Words
They sell it in stories, with ribbon and gold,
that love is a fire that never grows cold.
A promise that pulses, a fate that won't fade,
two hearts in a storm that never betray.
But I’ve traced the edges, I’ve seen the seams—
true love is a phrase stitched into dreams.
It shines in the songs, in movies and vows,
then frays into silence when no one’s around.
It isn’t the lightning, or soul-recognition,
not some divine or destined ignition.
It’s timing and effort, a gamble, a guess—
more duty than magic, more burden than bless.
People stay lonely inside of a kiss,
smiling through fractures they’re afraid to admit.
They hold hands out of habit, not heat,
and call it forever to soften defeat.
True love doesn’t falter, they say with pride,
but I’ve watched it wither with nothing to hide.
Even the faithful, even the brave—
end up as names carved far from the grave.
It's a myth we memorize, a tale we repeat,
to sweeten the ache of incomplete.
Because who wants to hear that love is a thread,
thin as a whisper, easily shed?
No—better to chase it, to fake what we feel,
than live with the thought that none of it’s real.
Better the echo, the fiction, the flame,
than admitting it all burns out the same.
So call it romantic, call me unkind,
but love, if it’s true, is something we find—
then break, then bury, then beg to revive.
It dies, and we dance, pretending it’s alive.
- Writer
