Loving you is a like taking a knife and stabbing myself with it. There is a tingling feeling that comes with it. A sourness like taking too many tamarinds. The kind of taste that leaves the mouth craving for more and more. Its not sweet. But whatever it is, is addictive.
Its looking into your beautiful large eyes, how much I love them, and realising that probably those eyes will never lock gaze with mine for real. But still casting my net anyway. For what use are my feelings left unspoken?
To love you is to suffer want. To yearn for you. For your soul. For your crazy intelligent brain. For your morbid humor. For your unique sense of self that you carry around.
But it also to aspire for Pluto’s 69 moons. Knowing fully well that we aren’t even sure that that first man on earth’s 1 moon actually did end up there or it was a conspiracy theory.
It is to hear of galaxies trillions of billion years away, and still want them. When mortals aspire to reach for the stars, I look into your awesome self and aspire for the end of the other universe.
It is to know that what I want, unless the gods of my ancestors mash up together to help me, I won’t get it. But to want it anyway.
It is to bleed it out. And heal. And open the scars again, and bleed it out yet again. Because only you can make the sight of my heart bleeding seem like the most beautiful painful sight to behold.
To love you is like making a commitment with the devil. You get served your favorite dish on a plate of torture.
It is to be asked what’s the best thing that could happen to me, and I say you. All those advises on how to not peg expectations on human beings fell on deaf ears. Because sikio la kufa haliskii dawa. And at the rate of this silence, I might be dead by the time you find your voice.