I have never been one for cheesy pick-up lines and corny starters. To me, they are as cringe-worthy as any other generic, romantic-comedy film -- overhyped and overrated. I find nothing worth cooing over, and it seems as though irony finds me in the most convenient times, because the moment you made a home for yourself in my mind, monopolizing every bit of attention my frontal lobe could muster, I became a living contradiction of the love-hate relationship I shared with these sappy lines.
In between the lined dots imprinted on the clock and behind the resounding tick tock tick tock that fills in the silence, you begin running through my mind, and I wonder if you’ve ever felt fatigued as your feet trudge on, sprinting and then lazily walking, before planting yourself head-first into what cerebrospinal fluid I have left.
My brain has become a museum of your portraits, frontal lobe focused on the way your eyes crinkle whenever you would smile, parietal lobe recalling the warmth of your fingertips against my skin, the taste of your lips on mine. My occipital lobe fills my senses with the very images you’ve imprinted into the back of my eyelids, and my temporal lobe is the worst of them all -- because she remembers.
She remembers, and she keeps me up at night with the memories of the hours we’ve spent together, how your laughter has replaced the do re mis on every scale, and I can never look at my sheet music without remembering the way your fingers played the piano keys as though you were mapping out the world with every tune. You have taken me on a journey all throughout the world with a simple symphony, and it monopolizes my thoughts until sleep deprivation proves to be the only solution.
Writing about you is cathartic, and loving you is therapeutic.
There are twenty four hours in a day, a thousand and four-hundred forty minutes making up a single of the earth’s rotation, and yet you spend every millisecond lingering in my thoughts, but what intrigues me is why your presence feels as fervent as it does when the clock strikes five o’clock in the morning.
My eyes focus on the digital image of the clock, numbers staring back at me in expectation. It is five in the morning, and suddenly, you matter more than reveling in peaceful slumber, because your smile holds every semblance of serenity my weary heart could ever long for.
It is five in the morning, and suddenly, you matter more than the hours of peace my mind craves, because your laughter rings through the silence of my room, and I am reminded once again that the most beautiful angels do not merely sing.
They entice.
And you, my love, are not a sudden sensation, nor are you a fleeting dalliance.
You have never been merely sudden, and I fell for you as though my heart already knew it was bound to happen.
It knows no other love than this -- than you.
And so, I begin to eat my own words up. Perhaps I do not resent pick-up lines after all, because I’ve become a living oxymoron, a contradiction between a cynic and a hopeless romantic, though I wouldn’t mind being made a fool one bit.
Because it’s you, and for you, I would be a fool (every second, every minute, every hour, everyday).
