A poet's love story.

"Every man loves two women; the one is the creation of his imagination, and the other is not yet born." 
 - Khalil Gibran

       She was the first to spot the sensibility in the lines I scribbled. Her appreciation was my finest inspiration. We bonded over poetry. I paid more attention to the lines I scribbled, because I knew she pondered over those lines. 

         The poet in me was gradually finding his voice. The choice of the apt word for the apt emotion was a challenge I loved to surmount. What is interpreted by the learned, in those lines of mine as a passion for poetry, I now wonder if it is actually a lust - a lust for appreciation by the girl, who was to me in those days the whole world. 

       I still wonder if that which blossomed between us could be called 'love', because every time I introspect I feel I have never understood what love is! But one of these days is not one of those days, when I composed what is now supposedly praised as lyrically beautiful, passionate flow of emotions on love and its various forms. The world reads and relishes those lines, but I doubt, if they are the result of excitement born from immature infatuation. Or, am I blinded by what I assume to believe?

       As we came closer, I made sincere attempts to compose poetry which impressed her. Always engrossed in the world of dreams, a poet inhabits, I forgot the reality about myself and the world around me. My imagination and creativity, I felt then, were at their peak. Every word, every phrase, every emotion that the poetry captured, all my attention were in the realms of imagination and beauty. So much, so that I felt I was obsessed in my attempts to impress her.

        But, as she walked away from me, she complained I was obsessed with poetry and paid her no attention!