ketchup.

Waiting for love is like waiting for the viscid UFC catsup to pour down on your plate. It usually pours on globs. You hold its bottle on your left hand, carefully watching that it stays on a perfect angle. You wait. And wait. And wait. Because you know that anytime, it may pour. You squint your eyes to see if the red substance is moving at all. And you get tired. From holding. From looking. From waiting. Briskly, you put the bottle down, your arm weary. You let some time pass and then hold the bottle again, angling it perfectly. And again, you wait until it pours down---if it pours down. You get quite successful and it pours scarcely. So you cover it up, shake it and start pouring again, or rather---waiting again.

It's pretty much like that. You wait for that "prince" your whole life, believing there is indeed one for you. you meet a guy and think that maybe, just maybe, he COULD be the one. And you stupidly try to make EVERYTHING work out between the two of you. Then again, all these efforts dry you up. Worn-out, you decide to end things up. But by and by, an attack of nostalgia comes and you reminisce the happy days; consequently feeling that you want him back. It MIGHT still work out. He COULD still be the one. You think it up for some while. But in the end, you get on with the drift. And what the heck? You wait. AGAIN.