I’ve been called crazy because I wear my heart on my sleeve. It’s no secret that I am in love with romance. My heart melts at long typed texts and love letters; although I know many fellows use it as a tactic to get what they want. My heart does these little somersaults when I receive white roses and the scent of it brings a goofy looking smile to my face. I enjoy long walks in quiet places and I still believe in closing my eyes during a kiss. I am in love with the stars in the sky and the way they make my eyes sparkle when I’m not even aware of it. I absolutely hate physical compliments, but I drift into euphoria when I hear how beautifully crafted my mind is. I might be naive for believing in fairytales and for wishing that one day I’d be whisked away into a land where I didn’t have to be afraid of love. I dream about a man that would love me so much that he’d turn into a magician to make my insecurities disappear. It breaks my heart though, that love is just a word that is used when people feel like fulfilling their selfish desires. I always wonder where the love from my grandparents’ time went. I might be insane for believing in a love so deep that the oceans explode. I do believe the problem lies with society for believing that it doesn’t. It might just be in my head, but I do recall once loving someone so much that I was willing to give up my happiness, while being aware that the feeling would never be reciprocated. I recall these little hearts popping out of my eyes like some cartoon character when I used to look into his eyes. Sometimes, I feel like there is nobody who truly understands the intensity of my emotions. I feel afraid to show emotion, because woman who are in love get classified as obsessed. I fall deeply and I love even deeper. I’ll love every part of that man and I’ll change nothing about him. I crave a connection that goes far beyond the physical. I want to know the parts of him that he hates and help him passionately love himself the way I would.

Whoever he might be…

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