L’amour est la poésie des sens.

She was a scary thing to love.

She told me not to, multiple times; I told myself not to, multiple and a hundred times.

But it was hard when she keeps staring into my soul like I’m some kind of a galaxy she’s trying to figure out and all the while making me feel like my atoms are one constellation of stars. It was hard when she spills poetries with her sinful tongue and her quick wit mouth and she would jokingly add that she thought of that while staring at me – her muse; and I wish, god, I hope to lose my sense of humor just so I could believe in a split second that it was real. It was hard the first time she brought me to a museum she was so ecstatic to go to and it was harder when she made me stand in front of a masterpiece just to hold my shoulders in each of her hands making sure I won’t be running any time soon, “Are you aware of the masterpiece behind you?” I faintly nod but her asking me with this kind of conviction is putting me in a haze, “Are you aware of all these arts around us?” Yes, yes I am, “Are you aware of how much I am into art?” I’m not sure where the hell she’s going with this but- “Then I guess now’s the good time to tell you that…” that? “In a room full of art,” Oh god please, not this quote, not from her and not while she’s leaning into my ears like it’s a secret she wanted me to keep “…I’d still stare at you.” That wasn’t supposed to be funny and I wasn’t supposed to be so in love with her laugh and her voice and her being one huge of a minx to just walk away and not make it seem like she doesn’t know how much I am in love with her.

I willed myself to stop but it’s difficult when she’s crying at 3AM and she tells me that I’m the only one she could trust and I hate myself for giving her the power to make me feel special and wanted. It’s a lot harder when I’m used to seeing her loud like an uproar battle and then there are days when she sits on the window side of the bus and decides to listen to The Smiths or Nirvana or anything to supply her old soul; and she looks so serene and so peaceful and so calm that I would do anything to keep her away from raging wars.  Seeing her reading nonchalantly on her spot in her favorite coffee shop and getting enamored by her book made me want to go back in time and bring one cliché movie scene to life and meet her then and there; although she’d probably call me a fucker for it – whoever thought it’s romantic to disturb a girl reading a book in a coffee shop is an asshole, take my word for it.

It’s a lot harder to not fall in love with her when she’s feeling reckless at an ungodly hour and I have a canned spray of paint; “Poetry is in the streets, mon amour.” – and I would have to get so high just to forget how she called me my love in French; and she really, really, needs to cut the poetic facade especially when we’re chain smoking because I cannot for the life of me restrain some more when you maunder them and say things like invade me with your hot mouth; interrogate me with your night-eyes, if you want — only let me steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there.*

She was a scary thing to love but I loved her thoroughly and unabashedly; I swam in her waters I feared so terribly deep and she showed me vast array of oceans and found out secrets she wanted me to keep.

She was a scary thing to love because she was much more scared of Love itself.

So I brought her in another museum and whispered in her ear “Tell me all about your demons and I’d still be here fancying a dance, mon amour,” and if her blinding smile wasn’t enough of an answer- “Didn’t know you’re the Christopher Poindexter type, fucker.” and I really, really wasn’t but the moment was so spontaneous and idiosyncratic and beautiful, just like her. “And I didn’t know you could understand french, asshole.” and her curses was nothing compared to her laugh that resonated around the room- “L’amour est la poésie des sens.” I never really understood French; but staring at her in a room full of art, there is not much greater of a masterpiece.

 

À toi, pour toujours,

 

[*excerpt from Pablo Neruda’s]

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