I am no master in this art of love. Yet, every time I see you, my heart contracts, my lungs forget to make oxygen, my hands shake like some bird struggling to get out of a cage, my legs go limp like marshmallows and my soul shatters only to get glued up again. I try not to show how badly I want you, how strongly I adore you. When you play with your raven-coloured hair, I get mesmerized by the beauty of it. When you smile with your eyes, I hold myself back from touching you. You are fire, my darling. And like a moth, I am drawn to you. You are the sky, and I am an injured bird. I see you talking to the moon at nights and I can’t help but wonder how lonely you must be. In these past few years, I have learnt things about you that no one knows. How you like your space, how delicate your hands are, how much obsessed you are with the colour olive, how you like your tea cold and not hot (I question you for that every day), how you like to go on the roof once everyone is asleep and gaze at the moon, for you think only she can understand how lonely you actually are, how you smile when someone mentions any great poet, like you know all of his works line by line, word by word, how you have this diary that you carry around everywhere– to cafes, to bookstores, to that sunset point that you adore so much and finally, how you carry infinite love in your heart, that has now started to turn into grief. Oh, my dear love, oh my world, I would light myself up on fire if you were cold, I would serve my soul on a plate to you, if you were hungry, I would become a paper, if you ever craved to write. Oh, the things I would do for you are indescribable and unspeakable. Just know, if all the red vanishes from this world, I would pour my blood in a glass for you to paint.