Love’s Overrated, Anyway
My glasses were blurry yesterday.
Something moved from far away —
familiar,
but not the same.
I remember leaving it in good condition.
I squint,
try not to laugh.
God, my coping mechanism’s still a comedian.
Ah, right.
It’s not that I forgot,
it’s just easier to pretend I didn’t care.
It comes closer and asks,
“What am I?”
I raise a brow.
“What is this, a test?”
It waits, quiet.
And I almost feel sorry —
it must’ve hurt too much
to forget its own name.
Get RaaylaPiano’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
“Let me remind you,” I say.
“Love’s overrated.”
Love isn’t meant to be found.
People call it a construct,
but I think it’s an essence;
something that just exists.
Love can mean different things.
The subway girl calls it love
when she’s being breadcrumbed.
The boy at lunch finds it
in the man who asks about his day.
The old man beside me at a game
sees it in his wife’s voice
reminding him of the eye doctor
as she fades away.
We all love differently.
So how fair is it
to think we’ll find someone
just by “finding love”?
Maybe the best kind
is the one you don’t chase;
not when you’re lost,
not when you’re lonely,
but when you’ve stopped looking.
When you’re focused on yourself,
building,
healing,
feeling proud quietly.
Because then you attract energy
that doesn’t feed your ego,
doesn’t provoke your anger;
just keeps you steady,
and reminds you you’re safe again.
I hug my heart one last time.
We go our separate ways.
I let it heal;
so when I’m ready,
it’ll remember what love was meant to be.
