The Only Thing I Know About Love
I know not much about love. God, do I even know anything about love. But here's what I know.
Sometimes, the least we expect out of people comes out in their most natural state.
You wake up in the morning to find them lying beside you with their shirts rolled up their tummy and their hand laying softly by your rib cage. The night before, you were both a mess. You were both drunk off wine and conversations.
He was never your type. No, you're attracted to well-suited guys in ties and briefcases. He neither had both. He lived on baseball caps and sweats, on a machinery you can't quite put a hand on.
He said he grew up with the pressure to be the best. Or so, that's what his dad pounded him for. Number one, champion, greatest. Never second.
But he was sweet, when he looked neither of it. Never was a big doer and believer of all things cheesy, yet somehow he pulls together an unassuming night of movies, pizza and duvets, not big roses in bouquets. And I, on the other hand, smitten.
He has a smirk when he thinks of something that once made him happy, and a different smile when he looks deep into my eyes. Sometimes I wish to crack his head open only to hear what he's been thinking.
On days when he's indifferent, upset or mad, his voice would echo the room and a lion was set out only to find regrets in his eyes and disblief in his hands.
And still, we fall in love. We fall in love in their most natural state, as we least expected to.