She believed in old love, and only in old love.
She yearned for old love, like she yearned for her morning coffee- out of habit, a comfort which made life worth living.
Her old love rode with her on the imaginary trams that crisscrossed the main throughways of the city.
Her old love held her hand while she travelled in cab, and pecked her cheeks before she reached destination.
Her old love was memories tightly knit by steady hands which believed that they will be well worn, with tales of their own to tell those came after.
Her old love was one in the morning, when there were no horns or dogs barking, when old rusty air conditioners gritted and grated their teeth in faux poetry.
Her old love was a sultry hot Sunday afternoon, lazy, contently fed, sparsely clothed, and rhythmic snores which tickled if you lay close enough.
Her old love was that whiskey bottle- lost in some forgotten corner, half-remembered on Saturday nights.
Her old love was the song from the eighties which shed its age and is shy to move in half-steps.
Her old love was letters written in cursive with haphazardly scribed words- intended to be a quip, but were adage to angst and hope.
Her old love was the poems that remain unread, stocked and locked in heavy cupboards with moth balls, lest they be pried, even if unintended.
Her old love was a name, firmly said, with no half vowels, and consonants which stirred storms in antique tea sets.
Her old love was a hard trek up the hill of ancient stones, carved to mean, to be, but now in ruins, except for those eyes, which still seem to see.
Her old love was a sketch which still she held, a t-shirt she still wore, a laughter she heard, tears that were left unshed.
Old love, where a hug was a cuddle, a kiss that stopped time, silences, words that said themselves.
Her old love felt salty on the sides of her tongue, never spoken, but never forgotten.
Her old love was a dream, which she wished was a memory.
Her old love she held like a phantom limb, never seen, but always felt.
