By Isha Gupta
My love is like a cold desert
You won't know what hit you until you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for air/
His, like a dingy motel room
It'll be cold and rusty, with unwashed blankets and questionable mattresses, but it'll protect you from rain/
My love likes to stay up too late and wake up too early
No one sees it coming, no one sees it go/
His, like a lazy Sunday morning
With drawn out bubble baths, breakfast in bed, and reruns of old TV shows/
My love feels like burning black coffee
It'll scald you until you can't feel your existence, but god forbid you if you don't drink until the very last sip/
His love, his love will share an umbrella with you when it's storming out
Even if half it's legs get drenched/
My love is a solitary sleeper
His love loves to cuddle
My love wears gloves during winter
His love holds hands
My love likes cats
His love prefers dogs
My love writes angsty poetry
His love pens love letters
My love solves newspaper crosswords
His love reads the comic section
My love is black
His, is white
My love, my love destructs,
His love, it heals.
Love it!!
Beautiful.