I am not a painter.
But even though we are colors who never really complement each other; you—a bright shade of crimson, and I—a dull shade of periwinkle. Yet we still mange to create that perfect iridescent shade of purple.
I am not a musician.
I know nothing of notes, and sharps, nothing about tones, and dynamics. And sometimes I panic, almost every time to be honest. But although the melodies of our hearts never meet and they rarely strike at the same beat, the sound it makes when we’re together feels like a symphony to me.
I am not a writer.
And I admit that the combination of words and syllables never really made sense to me; the perplexity of language never fails to baffle me. The uncertainty of the words challenges me too. But somehow, it all made sense when I was writing about you.
I am not a poet.
The use of pretentious words never really made sense to me. The way you combine your statements and your awkward break lines where you always cut your words after three. Yet whenever I’m with you, those magniloquent, ornate, and verbose words of yours never really felt indifferent to me.
I am not mathematician.
I was never really good with Math. Numbers would confuse the hell out of me. I cannot tell you how numbers made me feel giddy, and dizzy, and wobbly in the knees. But then again, you also make me feel giddy, and dizzy, and wobbly in the knees—maybe I do like numbers after all.
There are a lot of things that I am not.
But I am sure of one thing.
And that is you.
Written by Arence Gabriel Gecale