There is something about falling in love with writers and poets. They always paint pictures of you in flattering ways. Your body, your mind, your soul is a muse to them, and they add details to it to make it more beautiful, more ethereal.
Today, my favourite told me that the way I wake up in the morning is not a mess, it’s a stretch of the mind as much as of the body. The way I carve my body is not to loosen muscle from the terrible way I sleep, but the arch of my arms is his morning drug.
He said that the way I like my coffee isn’t random, it’s a reflection of me- dark with a dash of whipped cream. My breakfast, a croissant, is our relationship- beautiful, classy, unique, and sometimes cheesy.
He said that the house my parents built is beautiful, because it’s a reflection of them- brown wooden doors that are sturdy, brick walls that are hard to break down, a porch that’s easy to access for outsiders.
He said we’ll build a glass house by the beach, so we see the beautiful waves and the sunrise, so that we are open to aesthetic beauty of the nature, but we’re not one with the nature. Boundary to save ourselves when the weather is too harsh.
He says we can have a Summer home somewhere cool, where I can leave my hair open and he can kiss my neck by parting my hair. That the sweetness of my lips would be far better than the ripe golden mangoes that we’d have grown in our backyard.
There’s something about being in love with artists and poets. Everything is music to them. Everything is beauty, everything is grace. Everything is ethereal and eternal.