The Ordeal of an Expressive Lover

An expressive lover loves not in whispers but in symphonies, not in glimpses but in portraits painted with passion. They write letters that may never be read, sing melodies that may never be heard, and dream in colours too vivid for the world’s monochrome heart. They romanticise the mundane, find poetry in the ordinary, and surrender themselves to the art of longing—only to be told they love too much, feel too deeply, and expect too grandly.

Their love is an ocean, but the world is content sipping from puddles. So, they are left aching—not because they are unloved, but because their love often overwhelms, intimidates, or is mistaken for mere dramatics. They become poets of unreciprocated affection, architects of castles no one wishes to dwell in.

Yet, an expressive lover does not know how to be otherwise. They will always love in metaphors and devotion, in sighs that echo through time, in letters sealed with the fragrance of their soul. Even in heartbreak, they find beauty. Even in absence, they find meaning.

For in their very being, love is not a mere sentiment—it is existence itself.