“Do you still love me?”, she said. Does she think I’m fooling around?, I thought.

I saw something on the internet today about fooling around. I pondered to myself, she must think this when she says I’m not really there sometimes.

To her luck, it’s not in my nature to fool around. I love her. There’s sincerity in my heart. 

I’m sincere when I ask her if she ate, because when she eats I feel my stomach is full. I feel complete. 

I’m sincere when I place my hand on her back in public, claiming her. 

I’m sincere when I guide her on the road, when I figure things out for her so that she can think about everything else. (E.g. Baby goats)

I’m sincere when I scold her about her health, trying to find out if there’s anything wrong. When I feel her energy change throughout the day—and adapt myself accordingly. WE have to craft the day after all.

I’m sincere when I tell her I’m gonna make everything right and she’s gonna sit on my shoulders as I go up. 

She’s so delicate. I can’t fool around with her. I love her. I’d strip away every layer of my being so that she can touch my heart. 

My heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It still craves domesticity with her. 

I want a simple life full of abundance with her. I’ll have it. 

I’ve noticed how there’s no confusion when I think about her. Every thought about her has absolute clarity— an honour for her impeccable soul. 

I’m standing here, in our balcony, while I smoke a cigarette thinking about her. Time passes by slow when she’s not there. I don’t sit in the balcony because every inch of this place reminds me of her. I just stand, and think, of the love of my life. And everything stops. I stand, looking on the road filled with memories of our walks. I stand. Still.