The Girl

How can I keep from talking about her? She's all I've thought about since mid-April. I don't really care if a nosy gossip columnist reads this and splashes it all over society's Page 3 (fat chance), or even Twisted Shout (!) but I'm in love. And wonder of wonders, she is too. With me, which is even more unbelievable.

She's everything I've ever wanted, and a lot of things I didn't expect! Like John Denver's Annie, she fills up my senses. In every pore. Like quicksand, like a flash of lightning. Only its a permanent flash, and looks like its going to last a really long time.

Am I smitten? Oh yes, I am. I can actually say things (and mean them) like her eyes are pools of liquid fire, and not feel like a corny, romantic fool. The surest, deadliest sign of love is when you start saying things like that. When you think eleven red roses and a pathetic attempt at poetry written on a yellowing scrap of paper is romantic. When you can spend hours, mesmerised, thinking about those eyes.

What do I feel for her? Its hard to describe. There are no words in the language that cover the feeling. Happiness isn't quite right. Nor is joy, nor ecstasy. Love is too cliched. Its like the feeling you get when you smell the first rains of the monsoon, when you see rows and rows of gulmohur trees in full bloom, when you are so carefree that you can go singing and dancing in the pouring rain. It's sort of like the feeling a little boy gets when he sails a paper boat, but not quite. Sort of like the feeling an artist gets as he licks the brush before the painting, but not quite.

She means a lot to me now, she is my Rati, my Aphrodite, my Venus, my very own Goddess of Beauty. And she is breathtaking, trust me.

She is my girl.