My dear,
I have thought of the perfect gift: it’s a mirror! Because sometimes you forget how stunning you are. I know the creation story, but I believe one of the mysteries behind the rising sun is that the sun rises just to watch you. The stars even stare, hoping to learn from you better ways to shine.
So, take this mirror, and see how beautiful you are; the perfectness of your shape and the brilliance of your mind. I see the purity in your soul, the longing in your dark brown eyes. Anyone can drive on a straight road, but it takes a real man to handle the curves. Your breasts are like little hills with the most beautiful summits. Your hips were moulded to carry a saviour of the world, and your lips are made from honey.
It’s sad that we both don’t see you the same: you think you’ve given me enough, that I should be satisfied, whereas that is a pompous assumption that I can have enough of you. When I’m with you, I am in a constant loop of wishing that I were Joshua, for only then will I be capable of making the sun stand still, just to spend more time with you.
Then again, I ask myself if these words are true since I wrote them in December. Please do not assume that I helplessly lie in December. It has become routine, however, that I fall in love in December. It could be the Harmattan breeze which carries love from the Sahara Desert. Or should I say the hopeless craving to be wanted?
Hence, I doubt the truth in my own words. What if this is a subconscious response of my body to the season, and you, my dear, are the unsuspecting victim? But does it matter?
Women love lies. Lies that are told truthfully. As such, let me lie to you, and you will pretend to be naive. After all, doesn’t love require a smidge of stupidity to thrive? All is good that feels good, no?
Anyway, should we decide to build truth upon this lie, can we bury the lie deep in hell?
To be yours,
Tuesday.
