...and all of it comes smooth as syrup afterwards

Really, why does one always think up her witty ripostes long after the questions have been asked, long after the horrid, halting mumbles that are sad excuses of answers fade away into oblivion?

I could not tell them "the moves" that caught my heart. Whether there were any "moves" at all is completely beside the point--though I must say I really can't think of one, for the life of me, even now. And maybe there weren't any. Or maybe, even if there were, like a whole lot of them, it was simply because it wasn't "the moves" what caught my heart.

It was you. And I loved you.

And no, I really wasn't looking at a relationship as the grand finale of...whatever it was we were doing. How could I put it in words that would not sound like they were ripped off a cheesy B-movie? This very effort of mine, now, in the way of maybe sort of trying to encapsulate the whole phenomenon into finite, tangible words already diminishes it, compresses it, shoves it into a Tupperware and slices off the edges in a vain effort to make it fit, and all so one can grasp it in one's two hands.

I loved you then. Loved you before I ever fell in love with you.

(Which, as any self-respecting student with at least a C+ in Theology 131 can attest, are entirely different things altogether.)

And how could I not love you? How could I even begin to describe the infinitude that is you, that shall always and forever arrest me? Please don't make me. Allow me to revel in to revel in its ineffable wonder. The stars and the vast expanse of the sky will inevitably lose something on the way to the inside of a Tupperware.




I love you dear. Happy birthday.

theHERETICisIN.
o come, all ye faithful.