E
there's no specific moment, time, assumption and count where i come to love him. irrational they say, withal love has never been rational—unless truthfully collided as lovers like overflowing dandelion combs of honeybees. the extent of my overflowing crimson heartbeat is still yet undefined. scientific measurements nor arcane personifications aren't enough to reckon how this expands—perhaps i fear this has to be a parallel line. an overflowing love throughout my soul as it travels lightyears to the interstellar or mediterranean wind but it never reaches him nor even the maibox in front of his house at california.
there is no specific word, metaphor, onomatopoeia, and definition of my love for him. i've been figuring it out myself in between the words of nicholas sparks or jay asher how it means to love him. inconsequent and mysterious, it lacks logic, dictionaries and thesaurus to search for the right meaning isn't useful anymore. or isn't it beautiful to love him? how about: intricate, complex, artsy, exquisite? it doesn't matter anymore, none of them feels right anyways.
i have been doing maths in our attic thereof when i caught his terracotta eyes looking for me. it tasted like sparks and cardamom and grecian whisky—no overripe cranberry could be compared to its taste. it was exceptional, as if tracing my butterflies unto the old carnations of my uncle's barnyard. free, pristine, pure, everlasting; but it never lasted either, knowing that at all cost, against all odds, against all possibilities and hypotheses... there is no specific equations, algebraic function, or linear inequalities to solve the pain and sorrow of loving him.
starboy remain oblivious with my splendor of him, like tracking each honeysuckle shadows upon the vibe of a queen bee without knowing he'd get bitten of uncountable swarms basking and hiding under their sweet cradle. i must have gone crazy for anticipating the expanse of my love for him, the way i memorize how his cheeks turn peach when he laughs with the skaters beneath the summer tide, the way his mouth drip of ambrosial gloss, the cerulean tide betwixt his baby blue eyes, above all, the way his gold chains and silver bling-blings dance along his soul—i mean isn't that just as perfect as apricot blueberry juice in a hot summer afternoon? regardless the indefinite moment, answer, solution, and word of where i come to love him, either if i try living in antartica for decades... i know i was long fucked up with spring hopelessness anyways.
and he'll never / love me / but / why / do i / fucking / love him so? //
—swevenry.
