Why do lonely girls crave this feeling, this eternal, glorious feeling of love, the moment they become a woman, realising that they are alone in the world? Looking for love in wishing wells, in a stranger’s smile, in the warmth of a voice, hidden between the lines of poetry and songs, in a cup of tea, in the wings of birds, in the eyes of pups, in the leaves turning yellow, in flowers blooming, in October suns, lonely girls have known love. They have known love because they paint it. They take a heartbreak in blue, measure anger in red, make a purple to chase the sunsets with fingers weighed by the weight of the world. They can make their heaven with the smell of henna, make stars with their tears. On even days they’d fall on her hand and become a gracious snowflake. They have known love because they have written it. In their laments, and prayers, in songs and sonnets, they have woven each word with each pang of their heart, like they were made to refine hurt into something so beautiful that the dull becomes gold, shadows leave the floor and dance with the Sun. They have known love because they drink it. In the bottom of the bottle, the ring of bittersweet truth, of existence remains and they drink it like it’s the gift of life, an engagement ring by Goddess Aphrodite. They sleep on the pedestal of the Moon, their muse while the ocean tides sing them lullabies. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen were the eyes of a lonely girl, carrying the reflection of the Moon that reflected her beauty. Lonely girls have known love. They have known love, not because they deserve it, not because they were given it, but because they created it. They are the creators of this glorious, eternal feeling, the centre of the universe, the core of the earth. This is to all the lonely girls, who create love like a cup of tea, every day of their being.