Have you ever noticed that in every song, story and poem that we write love seems a tragedy. Tragic! I mean, why is that? For me, I guess I was so busy gazing into his eyes. Call him Maduza, cause I turned to stone! Tragic! It was love only because it was the only definition I had ever explored. I mean I cooked, cleaned, loved, worked and gave. I washed his feet! To me, I was showing him the greatest respect. To him, a mere pedicure. Tragic! And I realized, how could he understand? His feet weren't tierd. He hadn't worked all day. He was busy though, consuming. And I had somehow got consumed. Tragic! Finally, I looked in the other direction, mirror even. I wondered how I had lost sight of myself in him. One and one never did equal one. I missed myself. So I went and I got a pedicure. My feet were tierd, and I deserved it. He hadn't taken the time to ever appreciate me, so someone had to do it. And after that, home to write a love letter to myself called Love Is Not Tragic.