I wanted to write poems about her. I wanted to describe how she was like a rajnigandha flower, mellow yet intense. Her beauty was sublime, and when she smiled, she always held back. I wanted to describe her long beautiful hair, the dramatic turns, head nods, eye rolls, and expressions. But I can’t write poems about anymore because I could never finish or stop describing. I can’t talk about her hair that unfurls like sunshine on a winter morning; soft, warm, and comfortable.
I want to talk about how wide-eyed she gets when she’s curious and how persistent she can get. I want to tell the world how kind she is and how she pretends to not care about the world and its ways.
She’s like a ray of sunshine through leaves on a spring evening. She’s so many things and so many emotions tied up together and yet so delicate. She chuckles when I run my farmer’s hands through her hair and across her soft neck. I could spend a lifetime listening to her chuckle and read poetry to me, my hand through her hair and across her skin.
I wonder how I got so lucky, but I didn’t, and it was only time till I realised it.