Love is not meant to last.

It is a gradual exhaustion of energies 

stretched across the thin fabric of time. 

The idea of which is analogous to 

worn-out nickels whose

dates have disappeared entirely. 

Love isn’t poetry || it is pain;

a prolonged strangling of the heart, 

slow in its obliterating march.

It is that melody which fades to a finish 

before your body can sense the beat. 

Love is an expression that does not exist, 

for it is the language of the Gods– 

Fabled rulers of the castle in the sky; 

a dream wrapped in a cloud.

Love is not meant to last because it is 

earth-born and bred to suffer.

At the least, a sour chance

to realize absolution. Almost entirely, 

a manic and broken high.

___

Sukanya (she/her) is a writer from India. When she is not reading or writing, she is lost in daydreams. Apart from being a lover of deep, unsettling horror, she is also a sucker for philosophical novels and vintage classics. Her style is experimental, and her writing is often fueled by an underlying existential dread. While trying to make sense of a senseless world, she found meaning by rearranging the alphabets.