You're great. I'm in love with you.

"You're great. I'm in love with you."
"Why so?"
"Because you're a writer and once a writer falls in love with you; you will be immortal." as I get this reply, I sigh in sadness.

They know not; love isn't something to be searched in someone who claims to be a writer. Just because, you think, I'd compare you with heavenly bodies and every day, you'd wake up to read proses solemnly written for you; you want me to fall in love with you without knowing the fact that, when I never able to describe myself, how'd I truly portray you on my wounded paper with a sorry pen.
I apologise, but falling in love with a writer is equivalent to caging yourself in a room where there are windows but no light. Where there is nothing like escape. There is only walls of infinities painted with permanency. You'd never able to cope with my emotional outbreaks and mood swings which'd be the rendezvous with the darkest self of mine where you'd doubt on the words I write in my poetry as I'd be something else. May be, till now, I'm not serving you my real side or it may be the case, that I'm just a wreckage wrapped in souvenirs.

In the end, if you're willing to survive the massacre; from head to toe, I'm your avid follower along with my pen. Your lips would be the pages, I'd solve complexities; your hair will be the ropes through which I'd climb upon mysteries; your eyes will be the deepest aqua, I'd be sailing across.
But if you cannot see me, when I'd be nothingness, then, when I'll posses existence, you will never cross the realm of my consciousness.