However, when i open my mouth to speak, my words are a completely different story.
Needy.
Clumsy.
Unkind and uncouth (Look it up. I know you want to.).
So i hereby wish i could exclusively communicate in post-its.
Small square yellow post-its, adorned with black ink.
I'd hand her a post-it, with a piece of my mind.
I'd slave to come up with original elaborate ways for the most basic of them feelings.
But i'd fail miserably, cause i guess someone, somewhere, at some point, have said it all.
And she had felt it all before. And more.
So while being sincere may be my thing, being novel remains a rare commodity.
Therefore, my post-its would always come stripped to the core, but drenched to the bone.
A very simple man, i am. Pathetic really.
Reading:
"i need"
"i do"
"i wish"
"i am"
"i miss"
"i hope"
"i regret"
"i fear"
"i melt"
"i apologize"
"i dream"
and on a good day, "i love".
And i'd mean them.
Cause in a way that's not just what love has made out of me.
But it's also what i've made out of love.
Those perfect eligible two-words sentences.
They go round and round and round.
Perpetually.
And there's no escaping. No, there isn't.
But is it really possible to write about love in black ink?
Anyways.
She'd always have one reply:
"Feel me."
Well i do. But do you?
Labels: Tales Of The Butterfly
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