"You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes ... but because they sing a song only you can hear"

- Oscar Wilde

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"What's your favourite song?", he asked suddenly, out of the blue.

"My favourite song? I don't think I have one - they come and go according to my moods ... why do you ask?"

"Nothing really ... Just curious, that's all"

"Well, I haven't found one just yet. Have you?"

"My favourite song?", he paused as if he had to recall.

"You.", he replied.

"A song called 'You'? I've never heard it before."

"No, silly. You're my favourite song."

"Me? How? How can I be a song? Tell me then ... what do I sound like?"

"A slow, mellow song; With a steady beat like how you seem to my hair rhythmically when my head's on your lap; And a sweet melody like the unknown tunes you always hum on our late night walks. And of course, the thumping of your hear - I feel it every time we hug, like the bass of a song."

"Wow." She was awed beyond words.

"But I don't know what your song sounds like yet ..." She felt guilty all of a sudden. Had she not been paying close enough attention?

"It's okay," he reached out to ca