You told me that you hated rhymes— that you would rather write an endless paragraph, than find a match for every word in every line. I'd laugh as you tried to give each term a pair. Oh, how you get utterly frustrated about the things that you cannot do. Sometimes, I forget that you grew up owning whatever fancies you. I guess I'm yet to tell you that poetry is something not easily claimed. It is more than just the last syllables looking and sounding the very same. It's about the rhythm, how you intricately orchestrate the message you want to convey in the most possibly distinct way.

You stood there, watching me spell out words written with hands that long for you. It's a miracle that you still haven't deciphered the truth. But I saw that you were somehow astounded, too. And I am eternally grateful for that flash of recognition of my ability to do something that you cannot. In the end, you finally declared to have given up, knowing that you could never win against me when it comes to passion and love. You could never be so wrong. For it is something you have already won a long time ago.