Love is strange.
They say beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. He was beautiful. He was a masterpiece no doubt. But in a messy, abstract-but-not-meant-to-be-abstract-ish kind of way. There was no perfection to detail, no definition of colour, no intricate use of strokes; but still very pleasing to the eye, and boy was he pleasing to my eye.
Love is painful.
I didn’t think something of such opinionated beauty could take my breath away. But it did. He did. He took my heart. Tearing through my heartstrings, playing them ever so beautifully. And before I could cough up blood, he’d already whispered his name into every heartbeat and secured it back behind my rib cage. Like he’d breathed his very presence into my own. My lungs filled with the scent of fresh coffee so strong it made me sick, and roses whose thorns pricked me inside with every breath.
I couldn’t breathe.
Love isn’t even a word anymore. It’s not a relateable quote that I can just repeat off the back of my mind, it’s not a picture that I can look at again and again, it’s not a song that I can hum to. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. And I’m not even complaining.