He said he loves me.
And whenever he does it, he looks straight into my eyes as if he is handing me the key to unlock his soul. Of all the men I loved, only he dared to profess his adoration without stuttering. When he says the words that make my heart jump in glee, he says it with utmost conviction that even if he is lying, I'd still be fooled by it.
He was just as how the poets would describe their lovers. He plays with words so well that I knew I'd get my heart played someday if I am too complacent about this romance. He hooks me with phrases that men my age barely use nowadays. It was like he eats flowers for meals and spits them as bouquets. He's just the perfect epitome of "too good to be true."
And I can only love him in ways I know that he understands. I do not bring flowers on paper, but I give him flowers in a vase. I don't wake up writing morning proses, but I cook him his favorite breakfast to see him start his day with a smile. I was never good at words, yet he sure reads me as if I was a worthy and catchy paragraph. He says he loves me. And not only do I hear it or read it, but I also feel it deep down in my heart.
YOU ARE READING
The Brain is Never at Rest
PoetryHi. This is a collection of the pieces I wrote for the past years. If some of these sounded or looked familiar, it's because I've posted them in another account I used to go by. Thank you for taking the time to read my work! I hope you'll have a fu...
