But I don't understand how you can never see the perfect in you
Stop pinching your thorns and you'll see you're a cathedral of roses
You're not damp wood,
You're the crackling campfire to my nervous fireworks
How can I even talk about anything else other than how sweet you are
You're maple syrup on my tongue even when you're crying bitter tears
That eager face with a carousel of questions craving to be answered
Even when you've learnt them by heart, a gazillion times
Look at you
Sitting in the dark sometimes
Unfolding your bitter-sweet memories deeply embedded on your skin
Look at you
How scared you are if someone would find you there
In the dark
Doing anything other than smiling
What you carry under your tongue, could be a graveyard of dead words for you
To me, it's still a garden where I could sit my entire day just to untangle the ivy growing there since years

What you call your heart
Has the reluctant tenderness of a raspberry
Where you sitting there, are arguing about how cinnamon you are
I've looked too deep inside you
Even at the dark dingy corners you are too scared to be looked at.
You're my safe and my wild,
The sleep to my recklessness,
The calm after a hurricane,
They called it love
But to me, it felt like coming home.
The beauty of love is the blindfold
The not allowing yourself to notice even the slightest of imperfections
Cause they're always so beautiful to you.
Would you now believe
That I'm in love?
Entirely and immensely
With the perfect mess that you are.

-Anoushka

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