A Romantic Tragedy

By Vittala Chaithanya N M

I'm sixty now,

My hair has turned grey,

Sitting alone in my quiet home,

Sipping whisky, tasting the years gone by.

A dull ache lingers in my knees,

Youth has long since bid farewell,

Yet my heart, defying time,

Still beats hopelessly in love with you.

We were seventeen—

The age when love ignites.

Through your eyes, I saw my world,

Through your smile, I gave my heart.

I was—no, I am still in love.

The world whispers, “Move on,

Find love anew.”

But how can I?

When my heart remains with you,

Laughing, crying, and dreaming—alone.

Romantic at heart is my tragedy,

At which I smile, bittersweet,

For even in longing, there is beauty,

In love that never dies.

Perhaps I could have built a family,

Raised children, shared life with a wife.

But it would have been treason to my love;

For you reign as queen

In the unbroken kingdom of my heart.

I am still young in this love,

Still waiting, still believing.

If not in this life, then in the next,

I’ll beg the gods and wrestle with time,

To find you again.

I saw you the other day,

Freckles dancing on your skin,

Still the sweetheart you always were,

Gracing a life I could only watch from afar.

My love for you is Van Gogh’s canvas,

And you, my Starry Night.

With eyes closed, I see you still,

A vision painted in the haze of whisky,

Dreaming of living in your heart

Again—and again—and again.

By Vittala Chaithanya N M