She’s a riot,

At least that’s what she’s been called

By people who never understood her flame.

Abuelita called her,

Her little wildling,

Because of how often

Her mind wondered

And many have tried,

But oh so miserably failed to tame.

She has rules though,

Surprisingly many for such a feral soul.

Like,

Her person is aloof,

She doesn’t like being around people,

Or crowded places.

She’d rather sink in her bed,

Read a book so entrancing

As she imagines the characters abodes

And faces.

She doesn’t pick up calls after eight pm,

Or hold conversations that seem nothing short of being ‘lame’.

She doesn’t laugh at something,

In the bid to be nice,

If she doesn’t find it funny.

She hates faked smiles,

And forced kindness,

And the title ‘honey’ has always felt uncanny to her.

But how foolish did her rules seem

When a strong string of coincidences led her to him?

She doesn’t like staying up late at night,

But conversations with him were always a delight.

She likes her own company,

But in his presence,

Her heart beats in sync with his,

Creating a sweet symphony.

A feeling so ethereal one could only hope to find was hers.

So,

Another’s presence,

Well,

Why would she mind?

Late-night talks,

Moonlit walks

And her exaggerated laughter at his not-so-funny jokes.

She absolutely loved the title honey,

But only if by him it was uttered.

Kindness with him was never forced,

And her rules never mattered in his presence.

She pondered upon her newly found emotion,

Whether love,

Lust,

Infatuation

Or mere attraction.

Her questions brought to mind a great deal of tension.

But one thing she knew,

Without a sliver of doubt,

He was her exception.