Irony found in cataclysmic because it has always been my favorite word and it has always reminded me of you though the description is anything but similar to the way your feet flow against the gravel and your palms tug at the strings of your book bag in the morning.

Falling in love with you was not cataclysmic, although it was. A whirl wind and hurricane of loving you thoroughly without question but so many all at once, and wanting to kiss you
and wanting to kiss you
and wanting to kiss you.

Falling in love with you was not dramatic, it was not difficult. It was more of a descend than it was a fall. Every moment including today and every day after I continue to descend. It was slow and it was easy and it was subtle, like the second time your lips decided to hesitate near mine.

It was destructive in the way my body was split into two and I left half of it with you and the other half devoted itself into looking in your eyes and swearing they would never look at anything else ever again.

You are not cataclysmic the way falling for you was

but you are a beautiful catastrophe.