dusted paperbacks of fictional reality that blurred the lines of realistic romance
a collection of old 80s films sorted alphabetically
silly thinking of a boy putting up a boombox over his head playing my favourite song outside
to convey his infatuation with screaming verses of young love
aggravating the bitter skeptics who snide to the gesture

circling around the record discs of sad British pop music
thinking love comes in drumbeats and fast-paced guitar riffs
the sound that exudes technicolour of make believe
hoping someone would take me out tonight
and if we die, at least we die together
and as our song fades out
so is our wuthering romance

as history repeats itself
i have loved only a few
and memories of rom-coms and ballads confused me
numerous amount of unrealistic expectations from a non-fictional human being overwhelmed my beliefs
i am a wanderer
possibly a seeker
wandering since early adolescence seeking love and affection
trying to find a place and somewhere worth staying in

now i realised love is not a sad pop music
but i am guilty of pouring my aching heart to it
and writing stanzas in blood red ink that irritatingly rhyme

i have grown
the song of my slow-paced romance is a mixture of Simon & Garfunkel's bookends
and there goes the fear by Doves
coincidentally, they are both from my favourite film
but the words in the songs are more than what it was

the constant dilemma in my mind on why or how love come to be
and how time could pass by till all there's left is a figment of innocence and confidences
the firsts and what actually matters

there's a quote by justin young of the vaccines;
you want to do things differently
well do them independently
in which is self-explanatory
                         and so i did.