They say I look at you as if the sun shines out of your butthole. I laugh it off, shake my head and wave my hand dismissively. I deny it and say that I stare at everybody the same way I stare at you. I quietly add that you’re just a little more special than the others.

But deep inside, I want to tell them that the sun doesn’t only shine out of your butthole. The sun shines out of your tantalizing eyes, out of your mouth that speaks only of good things, out of your nose that breathes out the warmest breath and out of your smile that sends my head reeling in intoxication.

You are the sun.

You are the reason why my sun shines.

But you are a paradox.

You are also the reason why there are dark clouds hovering above me.

You are the storm.

The question that slips through my chapped lips, why don’t you love me?

Why won’t you love me?

They say when you’re around, I am nothing but a mess of laughter, giggles and incoherence. It seems like everything you do amuses me and sneaks through my unforgiving facade akin to that of an ice prince. Though I will never admit it out loud, everybody knows that it’s true.

Your silly thoughts that have a unique wisdom in them and your child-like humor that makes me laugh like a nutjob, they put me on a high that I never thought possible.

But you are a paradox.

Your innocent thoughts possess sharp edges that cuts through my heart that beats for you alone and your affectionate gestures bruise me all over; they make me crash and burn on hard concrete ground. They make me endure an affliction I never thought possible.  

The heartache I get from you is harmless and the bruises you give hurt like hell but they don’t kill me. They never do.

The question that passes through my malfunctioning brain, why don’t you hurt me enough to kill me?

Why can’t you just end my agony?

If only I have the courage to tell you how I feel, would you welcome me into your arms and hold me forever?

You put me this way and that way, bring me here and there, make me feel joy and despair; when is this going to end?

I like you, the words I let my dry lips utter as you talk about the boy you met in your Literature class.

You ignore me and continue to speak of how he sent you the sweetest and loveliest poems.

I’m in love with you, the words that stop your beautiful lips from talking about that boy you met in your Literature class.

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