Writers Jam

They talk of love like it’s a flavour— Sweet strawberry or creamy caramel. But I’ve never known the taste of love. Not even a drop on my tongue.

My father left my mother heartbroken, Betrayed by the one she trusted most. Still, she gave him a second chance— But he chose someone else and walked away, As if love was a door he could keep closing without looking back.

My grandparents were arranged to marry— bound by tradition, not by choice. But maybe love grew, just enough to keep them side by side until one of them die. Now I only see grief in my grandma’s eyes.

My aunty and uncle married for love— the kind that made everything right. But now their every word turn into discord, and yet they still stay, unsure do they even have to part. I wonder—does love ever last, or just disappear like a faint scent in the air?

My friend was toyed with by a boy she liked— showered with pretty words, then left on read. The spark faded, and so had he, only to return with just enough charm to keep her stuck in the same old loop.

So what is love, really? Everyone speaks of it like it’s a fruit— ripe, sacred, waiting to be picked.

But all I’ve ever seen is the aftertaste— bitter, burnt, fading before it ever fully bloomed.

I wonder what it feels like— to be chosen without condition, to be held without the fear to let go.

They say love is sweet, soft, and safe.

To me, it’s invisible and tasteless. A language I never learned, a meal I was never served.

Still, I wait— Palms open with quiet mouth, as if love is a holy fruit hanging just out of reach.

Maybe one day, I’ll get a taste. Even if just once. Even if it’s brief. Even if it breaks me, too.