Making love

She makes love all the time,
this girl I know.
Wavy hair on the rough side.
A clown adorning a crooked smile
that lights up really small eyes.
A girl who has already fallen in love with words
before, while and after she fell in love with a man.
If the first that peeps from the sky is a worm,
she'd write how beautiful it was
with its rings sparkling all through the night,
inching its way across the infinite realm of God.
If that little niece of hers puddles on her lap,
she jumps up in antagonising joy
while enjoying the warmth that lives
before she showers herself 'clean'.
While you only just read it in your head,
she articulates it in her heart and shouts
in passion that,
she lives in conditions unknown outside,
that she cannot track the number of words
nor the wrangling between her two different selves.
She cannot decide which side to go,
what to do about a boy she probably loved
and the rejection that sheathed itself in her heart.
Ramblings churn their way from her soul
losing its way in her blood,
sometimes hitting hard at the head;
which led some to think that
she has lost her senses.
I pity them,
for beyond a small nose and legs,
a large forehead and an independent stature,
they can't see that words swim inside of her
that give her more pleasure
than any boy EVER could.

~Hemu