and if you ask me what
do I love every morning,

Is it a coffee?
poetry?
short walks?
morning breeze?
or sunlight?

No my love
'cause it's you,
you're everything I
need to complete
my day,

I love you.

She was an open book,
but I can't read.
So her eyes taught me
everything I need,

until I finally mastered
how to love her.

First loves. First butterflies. First plans. First dates. First time you had your heart ripped apart.

First love smells like grass freshly mown, with the feeling of satisfaction and being one with something better than yourself.

First love tastes like melted chocolate in your mouth, that feeling of addiction which you want to deny exists but in your heart you know it is there.

First love consists of stolen glances. When you want to pretend that you’re not looking and maybe, that you do not care, but you care so much that your heart might just pop out.

First love reminds you of that one time, when you believed that anything was possible. When you believed that everything was going to turn out all right.

First love is about the plans that were never executed. The dreams that were lost in the long dark nights. First love is about the time when you were broken beyond mend. It is about realizing that you are stronger than you believe you are.

First loves. First kisses. First night holding their hand and feeling complete. Of teary eyed goodbyes and crying your heart out alone. When you do not remember how you lived your life before you fell in love.

The highest of highs. The lowest of lows. With just one question at the end.

Was the high worth the pain?

The greatest love story is when you fall in love with an unexpected person, in the most unexpected time, in the most unexpected place, and in the most unexpected way.

The worst way to die
is to be forgotten
while you're still alive.

To chase the fogs
and climb out,

To brew some coffee
and make breakfast,

To go out and jog
or to stretch and run,

Whatever morning routine
would it be,
I prefer sunrise of you and me.

My lady is not perfect
She has scars on her skin, she has storm in her heart, she has skeletons in her closet, she has dark rooms in her head.

She can't write a poem with perfect rhymes, sing in perfect tune, dance in perfect music, paint with perfect combination of colors.

But her heart is pure as a clear sea full of honesty and sincerity, her care is sweet as honey and sugar in a coffee.

And her love is like the love of the ocean to the sun, patient, true even though limited and miles sets them apart .

My woman is not perfect nor ideal one, but she's a stone that's rare to find and I love her more than everything.