The first time I met him, Love that is, he looked familiar. His eyes held my gaze. His mouth spit words that could nourish flower beds. His face became fam, but his tongue was a curse. Cursed. Curse him! Love that is.
The next time, his face resembled kindness that melted away under one hot touch. So quickly. Did I imagine him? My wild imagination. Maybe.
Love changes his face.
Because I met him again one warm spring evening and his face mirrored mine — brows furrowed: enthralled, eyes widened: curious, lips softened to kiss. He was more like me than ever before and yet he remained a mystery — an unwrapped package.
His face was like a surprise delivery the morning after an evening of delight.
Love changes though.
His eyes were really fire from coals that singed my heart. Shit! That hurts. Mama, it burns so bad. Make the pain stop.
And only his mouth holds the remedy, heals the heart, administers the cure. I need the cure. The cure for Love that is.
Love changes his face though.
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