I am in love. How can people say that love naught exist when I am so, so in love - then explain to me then, what I am feeling, how I would let my soul rip apart and float among the constellations just to let these things continue living. No, I am not in love with a person - I am in love with the way the sun falls on bare skin and ignites flames, the almost indignant warmth making you feel alive, so, so, alive. I have a thing for morning heat, I don't exactly know how to put this into words but there is something about the sun that reminds you that you are mortal. 

I am in love with the sky: it's blue (due to the refraction of light, I might add) is so brilliant; it reminds me of a painting but so ethereal only a master hand can touch. What about clouds - cotton wool placed in the sky, white fluff amidst all that brilliant blue. The blue reminds me of your eyes; they are the exact same shade as the sky - and I wonder if your eyes work like the ocean: blue because they reflect the brilliance above (or perhaps they reflect your brilliance within). 

I am in love with skin, skin in all shades - cream coloured flesh that flows over the sinews, golden brown epidermis that has been kissed by the sun. I love the soft parts that shudder at a touch and feel invariable under my fingertips; the dry parts, weathered from labour only you know of. The sensory touch is deathly underrated, I would trace testaments to your smile on the backs of your hands - whatever skin you have is immediately beautiful. 

I am in love with the grass and the flowers and the barks of trees. I am in love with nature because it is stark, honest - also because it is pretty. It is so easy to be in love with pretty things: anyone can testify to that.