I've run out of words.
The torrent within has subsided, just as the passion did a little while ago. There are a few things that do alter the heart-beat, but it is mostly a picture of peaceful solitude otherwise.
I fear the very thought falling in love.
When our eyes met for the first time (which is different from the first time we met), I felt an intense glow within her. She carries the air of a child, full of joyousness that simply does not correlate to this melancholy of hers. At times, one can see the cheer in her eyes—silent and chiding, yet gently coaxing one into saying something, even if stupid. There is delight to be found in every leaf that she picks up, every name that she reads out, every step she takes while on her imaginary ball-dance performance. She changes her masks with such ease!
There is joy, and yet the specter of past love looms large. There is the ever-impending gloom of melancholy that haunts her languid eyes, but despite her mild demeanor and the sparkle in her eyes, her words belie the pain.
I fear falling in love with her.
For, now lusty passion will rear its ugly head, and lead us to pastures never intended to be visited, not by this weird yet comfortable duo. I fear the words within will rush back into my head and drown away the comfort of the voices that ring out now. I’m not them--the words; rather, these voices are me. I fear her gentle voice will crowd these cheerful little voices that have egged me on until now.
I fear running into my own words. I fear loving her means losing myself.
