Never Been To

The entire book collections in all libraries in the world wouldn't be able to contain all the poetries that I have written for constantly finding––and failingly be with––an almost or a possibility. Almost every blood in my vein could be translated to a series of novels in which the main character is still decidedly without any romantic attachment, not because the lack of willingness in her part, but mostly because life has a way of interfering in something that seems like meant to be.

Every roll of films wouldn't be able to capture the scenarios that I have built in my mind the minute I found a romantic potential in certain someone. Every thrum of my heart constantly reminds me of its neighbour, the void in my chest, that was birthed from life's inability to translate my scenario into reality. In my mind, my lips have tasted the sweet life of requited love, my eyes have witnessed true love, my ears have heard the declaration of domesticity, my nose has woken up to the smell of homemade crepes and to the lingering scent of masculine shampoo on the pillow, and my body has learned that it won't ever get cold or lonely ever again.

Alas, the only sentence that I can formulate right now is, "Of all the places that I have never been to, it's your arms that I want to visit the most."