It starts with how you feel, then how you think she feels. It culminates to shared emotions in the form of words and yearnings in the form of expectations. Your heart is precious but you won’t mind if she drives you crazy. A full blown adult with the butterflies of a teenager is what you have become. You now listen to Bongo jams not because she loves or fancies them but because that’s the only genre that attempts to describe how you feel… what you feel. From the Swahili poetry to the Arabic references, from the subtle naughtiness clothed by hearty nakedness to the nude promises versed in choruses.
You can feel yourself falling but make no effort to cushion the landing because hurting has never felt this right before. Its new, its fresh and we all know you’re a lover of the unwrapped. So when she came to you with her emotions all suited up in knight’s amour you felt like a gladiator ready to fight taking blows at the slightest chinks in her armor. Her aptitude to fight you off appeals to your antennae and only intrigues you more convincing you that she is more befitting. So you brand her the queen of your heart. Your face is her throne and unknowingly to you, her love your thorn.
The white in front of your eyes starts to wash away and things start to look less merry. There’s nothing rosy about how she treats you. All those castles you built in the sky crumble and fall on the mere image that is your dream girl. You shall learn to walk with your mind on earth and not space, eyes open and your feet on the ground.
Live a little.