Mistake

Maybe having called it love was a mistake. Because then all of its associated rituals became involved. It had been everything that love should be, but isnt. It was nothing that love should not be, but is. So getting confused was inevitable. But it was a mistake nevertheless.
On a breezy February afternoon when she was, with her parted lips and lost eyes, waiting for her boyfriend, he had seen her. He had felt a weakness in him, a sinking heart and a click in throat; feelings of silent ecstasy. It was not love then. Not even later. It was like listening to music or seeing colours mix or breathing in aroma.
And you cant hold these things. With all your ipods and picasas. And to have ever hoped of doing so was a mistake.