Rubah Beternak

 Love hurts. That's what I learnt when I saw pain in my mother's eyes when she talked about my father. “It was a beautiful day. The birds are singing and flowers are blooming” But it was wound in her eyes as she spoke. Love hurts. That's what I learnt when I saw the rooks she built collapsing. Tight woven bricks crumbling onto the floor. Tight woven bricks that were so fragile it was unable to stand. Love hurts. That's what I learnt when I saw my father with his new wife. My… my new mother ? It was tightness in my chest and squeeze of my heart. And I thought, Oh, so love hurts . Love hurts.  Because it was red on Maria's blanket as she bled to death. Love hurts.  Because it was the vehicle that I rode as I carried her to the hand of God. Love hurts.  Because I felt tightness in my chest when I saw my wife sleeping on the bed we shared. Because I felt like combusting when she looked my way. Because I love, I love, I love her so much it feels suffocating. Because, oh,...

 We share a lot of traits—me and my husband. For example, both of us like the cookie part of OREO more than the cream. Both of us also like the rain, and the beach. And we listen to the same music. And for another example, we can be pretty stubborn when we want to. In his part, I will give you an example, back before we were even a thing, we were talking about the concept of soulmates. And, I know what you are thinking, that was stupid, that kind of thing wasn’t real, yada yada. I also thought so. And it probably doesn’t exist… But Beeroo wouldn’t let me take back my belief and retreat in shame. I still remember how my heart skipped a beat when he cut my shameful retreat and looked at me straight in the eyes. He looked more stubborn defending my belief than myself—like, that kind of look that just screams, I won’t let you talk shit about it ? Actually, I think that was the very moment I fell in love with him, haha. In my part, well, for context, my husband’s childhood was… pretty r...

 Sometimes, when I was asleep, I would feel a hand playing with my hair. Tenderly tucking it behind my ear. Warm breath against my skin, and gentle kiss on my forehead. Sometimes, I would hear my name spelled out like a reverent prayer in the midst of the night. A spell of love confession that I had never intended to hear. Fingers playing with my own, intertwining in the deep of the night. Thumb caressing the band around my ring finger, before pressing the back of my hand to the lips. Sometimes my hand would be put against the forehead. As if it was a sacred object that could put blessing onto the owner. And sometimes long eyelashes would just flutter against my knuckles. Hand tightened where our fingers tangled. Sometimes I would like to act as if I didn't know the worship happening the night before on the next morning. Pretending that I spent the night in silent deep slumber instead of being disturbed by the welcomed reverence. And my husband would act exactly the same the next m...