January 4, 2016
You smell of orange, thick curtains, an afternoon at the sea, a muffled laughter, an affectionate ruffling of the hair. My fondness for you intensifies with each passing day. Do you know what? At night, I call my mother and ask her if you're real. She met you once, and she was pleased. She would say Yes, honey, that person's real, why do you keep asking. And I would sigh and not know what to say. I love you, I love you, I love you. You're a mixture of madness and clarity, a kind monsoon right after the hottest day.