But some late night drives, when you glimpse at him between red lights, catch his eye and your hand snuggled into his, you're compelled to.

There's something about him that invites you in. And on days when your subconscious would remind you of the silliness of love, you stand rigid at the doorway, hand gripping the frame but refusing to cross. He holds the door open and the gesture makes your mind reel because was this a lure? You think you recognize the bait, same product different brand, different hand, and you grip the door frame a little tighter.

Other days, when your heart wins, you shuffle through the doorway and into his embrace with a thread of hope in you. You knot your arms around him and cradle his torso, and standing there, breathing his warmth, there's a soft offering of peace and serenity. 

You wonder if love should feel so safe, so enveloping, so… real. Your mind supplies, same product different brand, different hand, but there's gentleness in his that you have a hard time recognizing after years, there's promise and though it shakes, you intertwine your pinky around his and swear. 

You don't believe in love anymore.

But when you touch foreheads and breathe, his supporting yours and yours supporting his, you can't believe in love any more.

My life began as a blank piece of paper,  

A clean slate,

Whole, a loving family of four.

Years passed, and sections were filled,

Memories brushed on in a splatter of hues and shades;

The pristiness of innocence a mix-matched palette of colors, replaced.

Primary school started as quick as it ended, and new memories pigmented the paper;

New colors, new language, new home, new country,

Tones of tints overlapped and soon the old was buried.

It was sudden, the change;

Vibrant colors faded into the shadows of shades,

A palette murky with aging hues as time was wished unmade.

As a stroke of red streaked across the paper,

And blood red spikes dwindled flat down the line,

Ringing softly as it crooned, “Goodbye…”

Above Manhattan, the sky blurred with ashes and smoke

As fire engulfed the paper once part of my life,

Now as black as the widow, no longer a wife.

My life became a charred strip of paper,

A marred slate,

In broken state, a family of three as of late.