What is love?

What is love, really— a figment of hope sharp enough to shatter centuries of lived patriarchy? To think education could make a dent in what’s already carved in bone & name. To think a stranger could be chosen over the familial veins of caste, of home over the womb of belief one never questioned. Perhaps what’s whispered in secret was always meant to be hidden— buried, before it flowers into regret. Does it even matter— your thoughts, these societal norms, yourself? whether you’re religious, or not? What really makes one unique, when the future already beholds what always has been, and what will be? Destiny. to think one is different— to think everyone is just the same. To think all that ever transpired got fizzled on a random night that never belonged to me.