About a Girl

I want to write about a girl.

When she enters a room and begins to speak,
even the loudest voices become quiet and meek,
even the most verbally astute
become mute,
and I forgot I ever had a voice.

That's why I'm writing about this girl.
I have yet to retain my ability to talk.

I thought falling in love was something
that existed outside the jurisdiction of words,
oft described as impossible to describe.

But being rendered wordless I have come to see,
No, love is no such oxymoron.
I want to write all of her being.

It is in being stricken
by every aspect of an existence,
down to the tiniest detail,
that love exists.

Like the way her right eyelid twitches
as she laughs,
and how she glares at you if you interrupt her,
Medusa would cower in fear.
How she always smells like coconut oil
and strawberries,
how she dyes her low cut hair a different color
every month.
Or the way she covers a scar on her right arm
with her left, hugging herself,
while she walks.

I want to walk with her,
and tell her that the scar adds to the aesthetic
of her arm,
but this voicelessness,
these destroyed vocal cords,
hinder a man rendered mute
by love at first observance of beautiful idiosyncracies.

So instead I am just here,
writing about this girl.