It takes immense courage to fall in love 
with a woman who speaks of world 
like a sober singing ghazals.
In her case, 
love songs are temporary like a child's whim over a new toy, only to be forgotten after five long minutes of seeing a favorite cartoon. 
They are like the words inside a book a writer keeps close to his chest inside a roadside cafe, never to be opened on a full moon day.
They are hooks and baits, 
a weapon  Darwin forgot to mention in his "survival of the fittest" theory,
a checkmate irrespective of time,
a superimposed meteor afraid to fall.
So, loving her is like kissing the blue green flame of a lighter, all the adjectives in your mother tongue fusing into a single mouth.
It is not easy like buying a box of grapes on discount from a farmer who has black nails and brown teeth.
Loving her is like sharing a piece of your favourite cake to the neighbourhood bully, the sweetness pounding like a sorry you don't have to offer rationally.
It is not smooth like the fur of a puppy living in the comfort of a house with three meals a day.
Loving her is like going on vacation in an abandoned ship in the verge of sinking, the captain long dead, falling down from broken railing.
It is not shiny as a pear's cloth made of pearls, a landmark where sadness decides to be change its name.
Loving her is like finding a den in the middle of an hunting party, turning fists into palms, holding close a beauty spot.
It is not sweet as the linguistics of scent of a romantic rose, trembling over the invisible wind.
Loving her is like admiring the sunset on the bathroom mirror of a hospital, where behind the doorknob lies circles of miniature disasters.
It is tragic as referring to a historical footnote when everything else fails to make sense. 
Loving her is like the silence of shoes resting at the foot of bed, perfectly aligned in a line and no where to go.
It doesn't reflect like the light on a prism, it's sediments of colour and foam as a magic.
You have been warned, 
but then you look at her, 
only to find yourself in love:
Gentle as a spring breeze,
Violent as a midnight storm.
And then you realize 
Why poems are sometimes caskets. 
It takes immense courage to drown, 
while searching for a shore to rest, 
fully knowing that you haven't learnt how to swim .

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