Where is the Love

I’m 32, strolling the streets of Montrouge,
but with every step, it feels like I’m 12 again,
walking those endless loops in Moscow,
where I thought time would wait for me.
In my headphones, Where is the Love? plays softly,
and that same question pulses in my mind—
Where is it? Where did it go?

Twenty years ago,
I asked that question into eyes that mirrored mine,
eyes that held both curiosity and indifference,
a distance I couldn’t close.
I knew back then—just like I know now—
those eyes would push me away,
leave me standing, wondering,
why some doors stay closed no matter how you knock.

And here I am again,
twenty years of questions later.
Will I turn the other cheek,
let it burn like it did before,
or will I stand still this time,
no longer flinching, refusing to lose
what little I have left?

Where is the love?
It was so loud once, a vinyl tune in the air,
but now it’s just static, a record we scratched too many times,
until the words bled out, erased by you,
by me, by time itself.

How can I believe in it anymore?
When the person who knows my deepest ache,
the one who taught me to love and to break,
is the same one who left me standing here,
wondering if love ever really existed at all.

I keep walking,
the question still echoes,
but it’s softer now,
not sharp with anger or blame,
just heavy, like the weight of years
that have a way of softening even the hardest truths.

Because back then, I thought love was a promise,
a line that would tie us together,
but now I see it’s not a thread, it’s a maze—
a winding, twisting mess
with no clear way out.

I thought I knew what love was,
but maybe love isn’t in the eyes that reflect mine,
not in the words that once meant everything.
Maybe it’s in the spaces we leave behind,
the cracks we try to fill, but never quite do.

Maybe love is just the question itself,
asked over and over,
as we keep searching,
knowing the answer may never come.