I used to be able to write endless pages about love.
The love I had always dreamt of.
The love I wanted to find one day.
That love you’d only see in the movies.
That you’d only find in romance novels.
The cliche and too good to be true kind of love.
The unrealistic and impossible kind of love.
I knew the generation we lived in had taken any chance of that ever happening.
But nonetheless, in the pages I could bring true love to life.
I could paint it beautifully with words.
Phrase it in a way that made it sound perfect.
A way that kept me believing in it.
Then he came along.
And by the time he left.
There were no more pages of love
No matter how hard I tried to write.
The pages remained empty.

© janet k.