Come, love me. Try to. Say it firmly when you see my skin speak wordless frustration. When you see it bleed in shades of red created by mood swings. Come with me to the bookstore while I try to take as many books as possible and end up buying none. Try to speak my language in a writer’s notebook. Try to paint my pain down in London’s fall. It’s vociferous and beautiful. Walk with me through unlit streets at night. Tell me they’re as bright as my eyes when I talk about something I love. Try to follow my footsteps there as walk midst my destruction. Stay with me as the sun sets but there are no signs of it. Wait with me at the same spot for an hour straight as I write down my loneliness in the changing colours of the sky. Watch it with me for hours. Get bored with me. Decorate my walls with me for the 7th time just because I want to. Look at how I put up pictures of skies on my wall instead of looking out of my window only because they remind me of home. Stay as I show you my new dresses and tell you about my favorite food. Then trace my actions that alter my diet. The songs to my understanding are long and not that unconventional. It’s not jazz music that you find at your favorite café. It’ll lie between street music and sandstorms.

So, come love me. Try to. It won’t end with sunrises.