You Say You're Not in Love With Her

      

You tell me you're not in love with her. 

That I'm delirious for believing it's her name you're whispering in your sleep. 

Please stop lying to yourself, darling. 

I see the way you watch her when she laughs a little to loud. I see the smile that makes your eyes brighten when she runs up and hugs you.  

You love her, but you can't admit it to yourself. 

You look at her like she's your entire universe, as if she's perfection encompassed in ghastly summer storms and the colorful wildflowers you always stop to pick for her. You light up like Christmas lights in June at the melody that is her name. 

She is your decadence and morality all ingrained into a magnificent being. 

You never liked the smell of jasmine or lavender or honey, but now you're enchanted by them because they remind you of how she can never keep her hands warm enough or those lazy waves her honey colored hair always form into. 

Quit lying to yourself, sweet. 

It's undeniably apparent in your face that you're infatuated with the way she says your name and that little gap between her front teeth; and her freckles, the ones that are so flawlessly scattered across her face. 

She is the essence of love encompassed in sunflowers, intelligence, raw beauty and, boldness. 

She is the love of your life, but you are frightened to admit this because it is woman like her who ruin men like you. 

She is everything that is wondrous about you and that is scary to you. 

 You know that when she leaves your entire world will fall apart and you will be left breathless. 

You want to love her, but you're stubborn and full of yourself. You know if you admit you're falling for her, she'll flip your entire terrene as if it's nothing.  

You are senselessly in love with her and you can spend the rest of your life denying it; though someday you won't be able to restrain your feelings anymore and you will fall madly, helplessly in love with a girl who is full of sunshine and carries fairy dust in her fingertips.