If boys were books, the beginning of a relationship would open the door to a world of possibilities, every word spoken laying the path to a mysteriously enticing journey into another world.
If boys were books, the first date would be red wine and a drunkenly delicious dialogue, followed by a dessert of witticism and vanilla ice cream (extra whipped topping, please).
If boys were books, perfection would be possible, only because the written word is as pure and naive as a newborn, as true and as honest as a broken lover.
If boys were books, the initial infatuation would only increase, forever new, forever a mystery.
If boys were books, my favorite part would be the scent, old and musty, dog-eared pages and worn out words.
If boys were books, I’d stare desperately at the clock, every day begging silently for five o’clock to strike so I could race home and get into bed, curled up with my latest crush, immediately released from any tension or stress that every day life has a tendency of inflicting.
If boys were books, the intoxication of a love affair would be manageable, beautifully passionate but under control, escalated by my own decision to continue and not left to the whimsical fate of desperate human emotion.
If boys were books, I would enjoy a plethora of lovers, none aware of the other, all blissfully at my beck and call, begging to be held and used and loved.
If boys were books, the end would be heart breakingly quick, over with the turn of a page, a long sigh and a single tear, a cup of tea and a night of fantasy-filled dreams, over as soon as the sun kissed my eyelids the next morning, reminding me that it was inevitably over before it had even begun.
If boys were books, the pain and heartache would be well accounted for by the euphoric chapters of the relationship, knowing that one only needs to keep the page turning to return to the ecstasy.
If boys were books, the second guessing and endless fretting and wondering ‘does he love me?’ would no longer cause such agony and distress, because you already know that he is yours, he is in your hands, he is in your heart and will not leave until you release him from your grasp.
If boys were books, you would forget what it meant to trust your instincts, to trust yourself, to trust another human being with that vital organ pumping inside your chest.
If boys were books, love would be blissful yet bland, imperfect in its perfections, inadequate in its intimacies.
If boys were books, there would be no true joy left in the unpredictability of either love or the written word, for what is one without the other?
If boys were books, what would there be left to write of? Where would the achingly beautiful words flow from without the painful reality of human emotion crushing in on your soul?