New love feels like sudden downpour on a sunny day; unexpected, needed, it cleans your heart after the damage your last love caused to you.
New love means a new pair of hands to hold, new favourite songs to listen to, a different birthdate to remember, finding new ways to kiss; It is fragile but it makes you strong.
New love makes you dance to Frank Sinatra and makes you talk about politics in family dinners. It makes you want to put photographs in frames; it’s a mark of permanency, an idea of a naive forever that makes your heart beat fast.
New love sleeps on your lap and talks about your eyes with a voice that you’ve never heard before. It loves you with different mistakes and strangers habits. New love whispers new secrets in your ears and buys you sunflowers instead of roses and has a bulldog called Marshal.
New love drives fast and sings Christmas songs on August mornings and brushes his teeth for a longer time than you do usually and tells you trivial facts about Brad Pitt and sleeps on the left side of the bed and makes bad omelettes that you eat without a frown on your face.
It drives you insane but you find yourself falling in love at the sight of your lover bringing you cake at midnight on your birthday; you see the love in all the photographs you both took that hang on your bedroom wall now; you feel the love in the kisses he leaves on your forehead and you hear the love in the way he says your name.
Lastly, New love teaches you a genius trick about tying your laces so that you don’t slip and fall but no one knows that you find yourself falling a little more each and everyday.