Every second of all the past forty eight hours has been the longest for me. Knowing all too well, that I couldn’t write to you. It has now become so addictive, it leaves a burning strain across my heart that this hurt brews.
I’d always dreamt of a love, that bloomed slower than the brightest of flowers. Whose taste lingered longer than honey. And whose warmth was chilling and left goosebumps in its wake every time it was experienced.
Cupid had one job. I love that he failed. We always meet people who for a second make the bubble you’re in with them, so liveable a place. When the bubble bursts, reality sets in and it is never a pleasant sight afterward.
With you, I love that there is no bubble. You’re as raw a love any mukiga man would die for. So, red my heart and I’ll bleed my thoughts to you, of you in ink.