Being in a relationship is both scary and exciting, especially if it’s your first. Scary because we’re opening ourselves to another person, and exciting because we’ve found someone who wants to spend their life with us. I remember the first boy I ever confessed to, but our relationship was short-lived. We were young, and I’m certain we didn’t truly understand what love was—something that eventually shaped how we handled our relationship.
This is a common experience, and deep down, many of us fear that we aren’t expressing ourselves properly to our partners. We might unknowingly come across as cold, or perhaps even overbearing, which can lead to blurred boundaries and unease. That tension—the fear of loving too much or too soon—can be seen in Kalpesh Desai’s poem “Is It Too Soon?”
Sometimes,
I wake up at night
And I think of the ways
In which I would hold you,
So tight.
Like I never want to let go,
Snuggle you like there’s
No tomorrow.
And when you ask
“Isn’t it too soon?”,
I reply...
“Isn’t our love as old as the moon?”
The poem captures an intimate moment between lovers—one expressing affection, the other expressing hesitation. The reply, “Isn’t our love as old as the moon?”, could be read as a tender reassurance or a subtle insistence. It’s unclear whether the speaker’s love is timeless or if they’re simply trying to justify their intensity.
This duality reminded me of one of my favorite Filipino myths—the story of Bakunawa, as retold by Damiana Eugenio in Folk Literature: The Myths (1993).
In earlier versions, Bakunawa was a sea serpent who grew envious of Bathala’s seven moons and devoured them one by one. But in Eugenio’s rendition, envy becomes love. Bakunawa, lonely and longing, fell deeply in love with the moons that lit up the night sky. Overcome with desire, it flew to the heavens and swallowed one, feeling warmth and companionship within its belly. But as that warmth faded, Bakunawa devoured another, and then another—until only one moon remained. When Bathala noticed the heavens growing dark, he banished Bakunawa, leaving it to mourn its loss in eternal night.
Desai’s poem and Eugenio’s myth, though worlds apart, share a striking similarity. Both explore how love—if unrestrained—can consume. The moon becomes both a symbol of devotion and destruction. The desire to hold someone “so tight” can, if unchecked, smother rather than comfort.
I once met someone who loved me like Bakunawa. At first, it felt flattering—being loved so deeply, so intensely—but soon it became overwhelming. Their love blurred into possession, and I began to feel unsafe. Eventually, I had to escape their grasp, like the last moon fleeing to the sky while the serpent wept below.
That experience taught me that if we truly love someone, the last thing we should make them feel is fear. Love is powerful—so powerful it can blur the line between care and control, between affection and obsession.
If we aren’t careful, we may end up like Bakunawa ourselves—consuming the very light that once brought us warmth and joy. And when that happens, we’re left in the dark, lonelier than before.
by Tiffany Melo