Love Is Not the Truth, It Is the Art

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

That is what is wrong
with cold people, Anna.
Not that they keep
ice in their veins—
we all do,
especially in a country
that asks us to smile
through brownouts and floods.

No.
The problem is
they want every word
to wear a barong of logic,
every deed to be
a press release of precision.
They treat feelings
like court affidavits—
no room for embellishment,
just the brutal honesty
of “what happened.”

But love?
Love is never what happened.
It’s how you held the umbrella
over Nanay’s head
even if you got drenched,
how you still buy
her favorite kutsinta
from the lady by the plaza
long after she’s gone.

Gesture, Anna.
That is what they never learn.
The small things:
stirring the sinigang
the way Tatay used to like it.
Turning off the fan
because she’s cold.
Writing “ingat”
when you really mean
“please come back.”

For cold people,
it’s truth before art.
But love isn’t truth.
It’s scenery—
painted just so,
so the person you love
can walk into it
and feel,
if only for a moment,
like the world was made
to be kind.