Isn’t it funny?
The way you fall in love with a person before you get to know his soul?
You fall in love with his hair,
His beard–his beard, his beard.
You crave getting a hold of his being,
Owning his life,
Becoming a part of his daily routine.
His touch leaves your spine shivering with the harmony of his caress.
His crooked smile builds a shield around your mind; for nothing matters to you except his love.
Why are the first months of a relationship called ‘The honeymoon’ period?
Your communication is based on his hug after you first date,
His way of holding your hand when you tell him about your dead mother,
His luscious wink when he’s leaving your front porch,
His way of saying your name in bed,
His forehead kisses–his forehead kisses, his forehead kisses.
Weeks pass, and you’re both drunk on the idea of this so-called happiness.
Then, he sees you crying in the shower.
Your sobs interrupt him saying:”Hey, honey. Guess wha–“
Your aspects traumatise him so bad, he just stands there, puzzled.
He notices his indulgence;
He walks in the shower, wearing his suit.
You cry on his chest, savouring the way he aches for your misery.
He takes you out of the shower, gets you dressed, and you tell him everything whilst he combs your hair.
You tell him all about your dead mother;
How she left without a word,
How her self-seeking broke you to pieces.
You let him in,
You expect him to wipe away your tears.
At first, he does.
When you tell him about your father’s illness, he kisses your tears so softly, it sends you to sleep.
But later, when you tell him about pessimism crippling your brains,
He just sits there with your head in his lap, his hands stroking your hair.
No words leave his mouth.
After three months of being together,
You’re still supposed to crave every atom of his being.
Instead, you crave the way he fought your demons that day in the shower,
The way he linked your universe to his fate,
The way he looked you in the eyes and whispered:”I will embrace your sorrow as much as you sing ‘Desert Rose'”, and you laughed
Routine is a bore.
His touch still leaves your spine shivering, but you’re no longer in harmony.
His crooked smile snaps your heart strings; nothing feels expedient except the pain in your chest.
Why are the months you start to see each other naked are called ‘The Rough Patch’?
Your communication is now based on nothing;
His hug before leaving to work becomes questions of wondering why didn’t he kiss you,
His way of holding your hand when you show him a picture of yourself during your eating disorder period makes you feel his pitty pursing your ribcage.
He no longer winks at you.
He no longer says your name in bed because you’re too tired every night.
He no longer kisses your forehead, he only brushes past your head while turning to say goodnight.
You’re both drained by the idea of a breakup.
Then, you see him packing his bags when you come back home from girls’ night out.
The empty letters you say interrupt him saying:”I–I just have to–I’m sorry, I lov–“
You just stand there, startled by this scene.
You abandon the room before he says that he loves you.
You visit your mother’s grave,
You whimper until your head is heavy with blood.
You’re involuntary breathing.
You find a hotel room, you sleep.
This is your transition point.