When I was sixteen,
I thought ,
Love would come like the fairy tales,
Riding on a horse,
With a rose
In hand
And I would grab it
Like a story forever.
But What appeared,
Was a storm,
All quiet and beautiful,
Of words and innocence
Never felt before.
The butterflies
Which I thought
I would catch slowly.
But then the storm hits
At its peak
When you least expect.
Leaving behind
A million breathing pieces
Of hearts ,
Slowly learning its
First heart break.
Trying to iterate,
Altering the already known,
Definitions of love
That changed from a fairy tale,
To what I felt
Before and after the storm.
A tale of hearts
With an experience known only to me.
I believed,
This was an iteration of Love.