Some people love words, and then they fall in love with someone. That someone becomes their muse, a canvas on which they use their pretty words to make art.

Others fall in love first, then to express how they feel, they seek words and eventually fall in love with them. To them, their lover is no longer the canvas but a well of thoughts from which they draw out their art.

However, these are not the only two types to exist among the lovers of words and people.

The third and very rare are people like me who were in love with the words already when they met their first love. But after being shunned by the first heart their souls sought to connect with, they abandon those words for a certain time.

Until someone else comes along whose radiance shines far beyond comprehension. Someone else who makes them dive deep into the well of inspiration and weave a tapestry of praises all over again.

These people who have seen love and lost it then finally gained another know the value of this feeling much more than those who never suffered parting with their beloved.

I remember that, in my early days, there was once a boy who I thought was worthy of loving. His messy brown hair, sparkling caramel eyes, and effortless laugh—I thought if love could have a face, it would certainly be his. I tried to pursue him, but his brilliance made me falter, and I made myself content with only watching from the sidelines.

But then, how long could that fleeting dream last? He signed up his life to someone else and I was left on the sidelines, watching him get tied to a woman he loved. I attended his wedding, yes, and I wished him well, trying to be content with the fact that at least one of us got the love they deserved.

But in my heart, a faint stabbing of words continued, urging me to bury all those words I had written for him somewhere deep underneath my soul.

Unrequited. One-sided. A love that was never meant to be.

This love had ignited my passion through words and after losing it, I thought I might never pick my pen again. For who could compare to the person I used to write my poems on?

Wrong.

So utterly, deliriously wrong.

I realized that once I was able to see you.

What I considered poetry now merely resembled ash, the remnants of my love for words. Because once I saw you, none of my earlier words were worthy of describing you. That shallow well had dried out, and I had to seek a new one by digging much deeper into my heart and soul.

Taking my shovel, I had to plunder so deep that my blood would become the ink for these words and my soul would flow in every fragment.

Thus, I am neither of the two types of people who love their muse and love their words. I have loved words, then a muse, lost both, and then found you.

I no longer draw out my thoughts from the common well of love and admiration. The poetry I write for you flows straight from the valley that connects the heart and soul. 

This poetry is priceless, one that even I can't replicate for any other soul but you.

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In this journey from words to first love then heartache to yet another more profound love has taught me a a lot over the years.

I know now that the lovers who compare their love to every beautiful thing they see are merely asserting their command of words by using them to describe their beloved. Stringing their praises in metaphors, adorning them like a beautiful song of pearls.

However, the lover who lacks that command yet feels from the heart knows it's treason to compare his beloved to anything.

Why is it that my love was as beautiful as the sun, the stars, the moon, or the ocean? Why can't it be that I found beauty in all his imperfections? And how could I compare him to anything in nature when his beauty to me is beyond incomparable?

But then as I ponder over it, I understand why poets compare their love to the wonders of nature. Only they can see their beloved as completely beautiful and perfect. Only they can see the beauty that lures them so and makes them sing its praises.

However, what use is beauty if not admired by many? They say even the most beautiful flowers wither if no admirer sings its praises before stealing away its nectar.

So, to make sure the beauty of their beloved does not wither like an unpraised flower, the lovers seek ways to spread their praises to other hearts and souls.

In a fit of love and admiration, these lovers compare their beloved to things others find beautiful. For how could others value the beauty they see in their beloved without using their eyes? 

All these comparisons become a lens to translate their admiration in a believable form for others to revel in and admire as well.

But if I have to compare the person I hide away in my heart, I wouldn't think of the widespread bounties of nature writers use to describe their muses.

I could easily compare you to the moon which lovers reach out to and lament for not having in their lives. But merely comparing you to the moon would be a trifle. Why compare you to an entity that so many yearn to reach out to when I know you're a solitary star in my sky, a glimpse only I yearn to see?

You are not the moon. Instead, I believe you are a nebula. A scorching sun of its own right in some dark universe—a bright star—a force threatening to end everything if let too close. Despite all these attributes, a miracle of nature so mesmerizing that one could hardly take eyes off it.

Perhaps that is why a nebula can't be witnessed by the naked eye. Its sheer brilliance would steal the sight—blinding people with its beauty until they wish to look at nothing else.

If you are a nebula in the universe of my heart, then I am a black hole, a vortex spinning to devour every flaming fragment of your existence, holding it in the never ending void inside me forever.

A nebula and a black hole—what a tragic tale of infinities and impossibilities. 

Despite all the pains I took to latch my heart and soul onto a muse after losing the first one, I've realized that this love too is unrequited. Because here I am, spinning all these words and sealing them in unsent letters which will never reach you. Here I am, pouring out the essence of my soul even though I know it will never touch yours again.

Here I am, writing as the words continue to bleed out, staining my heart, soul, and thoughts with a longing much deeper than any I have experienced before.

But even then, all these words, these praises, these honest confessions will stay buried in a treasure chest that you might never get to open.

Through you, I truly understand the meaning of unrequited love.

With him, I had a chance to pursue him and tell him how I felt. A chance that I let go of for reasons I wish not to disclose further. I knew telling him would be futile and only end up driving us further apart than we are now. So I chose to let him go because we were better off apart.

But with you, there is no chance and no opportunity, only a faint hope that if you had known how deeply I burn for you, perhaps this love would not have been unrequited.

If only... These two words summarize my whole existence now.

If only you knew... 

If only we met...

If only you saw these words written for you.

Perhaps then, this love would become far from unrequited and holding onto this delicate string of hope, I suspend myself in the sea of thoughts yet again.

There is no reason to let you go. Just like there is no reason to hold you close.

Because even if my love is unrequited, it makes me burn stronger than I have ever been burnt before.

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