Love is a foreign thing for me. It is a language that I am yet to hear and learn but I know that once I get my hands on its words, I will write about your face.

I woke up today with a smile that is triggered by the memory of your smile and hands that drops everything because all it yearns to touch is your skin. Every food becomes unappetizing because I've developed a stomach that rejects edible things and it only wants to be filled by the butterflies that you bring. And last time I wrote, I wrote about wishing my words and lines were aligned but suddenly, I don't know how it may be, but I feel enough. And that is a foreign thing for me.

Love promised to grab me by the hand and travel to France where it will ask me out to dance. It promised to fill my soul with Italy's chaotic tranquility. It promised to fill my mind with Greece's ease. It promised to love me in Germany tirelessly. And it promised to take me to Spain and take away every bit of my pain.

Love may be a foreign thing for me but I feel like I've known your soul since forever.