He is an introvert; a silent simple man people would call him. But to me he is the eye of a tornado, callous and calm. – as his name suggest, he is the sun radiating vigor in my life. He is also the Shakespeare of many badly written poems. We not only share the same habit of torturing people through mock politeness, but also the same age. Although smaller than me, he stands with confidence and pride hung in his nose. Badly built man, evolution hasn’t favored him as he reassembles a lot like an ape. His versatile taste amazes me yet when we get together chaos of Euphoria surrounds us. A baffled man, he is the one who slakes my every thought of malice. People would call us best friends but I call me my inbred melee.
(This is purely fiction and please don't report this to my parents ;p) .. My fantasies were coated by perfect men from books who spoke perfect words to flow the hem of my skirt and the strings of my heart. These men knew every poem ever written and every fairytale ever told. These men loved children and respected women. These men were crafted from a woman's pencil. I longed for these men. Painful to realize a real man is made of dirt and dust. They are made up of rhythmless tunes and mismatched words. They are clever yet need help to understand their feelings. They make me grip my hair and groan in distress. I could never find a prince of books. Then I got a man. Perfect at see but flawed at saw. These hip of imperfections could not match my dreams. Mismatch at its finest. 1 don't want to see but I observe and am curious. Who is this? Who is he who dreams of me? One of his kind, I dare say. The open arms invite me and hug me so tight, it's difficult to breathe. Actions...
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