I’l fall in love with a writer.
Because his words would be able to bring life to the lifeless. He won’t just see things but feel them. He wouldn’t see black as dark but poetic. He wouldn’t see the sky like a cluster of clouds above us but as a part of some other universe that exists parallel to this one. He’ll know what I want before I want it, because he’ll know every dimension of me, the bitter and the sweet, the stormy and the calm, that too better than anyone else could have known. He won’t just touch my hands, face or body but he’ll touch my soul and leave his imprint on it forever. He’ll have a way with words, and just somehow ordinary things would seem celestial when he’ll write them. He’ll know how to deal with emotions. He’ll let my happiness and pain seep inside me because he’ll know that it’s important to feel both. He’ll know that expression of feelings can do wonders and that’s why he’ll be able to express it all, anger, disgust, happiness, love, frustation either through words he’ll speak or through the poetry he’ll write. He’ll have a different way of making me feel special. He’ll not speak much in front of everybody else. People may consider him an introvert or even mysterious, but at the end of the day, when there’s nobody around he’ll let me turn the pages of his life which nobody else is allowed to. I’ll be his confidante and favourite reader. And whenever we’ll sit together, he may not look me in the eye or may not speak much, but silence would become the language we’ll love conversing in.
And when I do fall in love with a writer, I’ll own pages of his book and he’ll own a part of me. And it won’t matter if we are together or not. Our love story would forever be alive in his words and that would just be enough.