by Cynthia Echeme

Created on: August 14, 2009

This is a confessional piece for my heart-throb; the one that I reserve some feelings for; the one that I love. Though, the word Love now appears an understatement for the huge thing I feel for her Erimma. For even now, I find it difficult putting into exact words and creating the exact picture of that which I truly feeland feel for her __ Erimma! Yet, I hope to try, and only pray that the attempt pays

Her very sight triggers some sort of chemical reaction in my body that my heart hums some involuntary rhythm and goes, kpum-kpum! Kpum-kpum! Kpum-kpum! And the slightest thought of her erupts from the wholesome well of my emotion that oil of gladness with the potency of inducing a perpetual smile upon the very face of one with a fresh death sentence! Even my merry eyes have suddenly gone green with envy and jealousy because it has suddenly realized that every of my second that ticks right into hours is thoughtlessly invaded by sweet images and memories of her.

I could never imagine her in the very arms of another. Daring and threading this forbidden and imaginary alley threatens me with a deadly heart-attack. It is more like sticking an ice-pick into my heart, with the poor tickled, throbbing fellow once again going, kpum-kpum! Kpum-kpum! Kpum-kpum! To actually experience this fear, is worse than death itself; because here, I die the death of the coward that is, dying many times before the actual death comes, just because my love suddenly prefers another.

Her weak-points and mistakes? My highly influenced and sentimentally-bribed heart is automatic advocate for her glaring mistakes and weak points, which quickly excuses, defends and silences my occasionally aroused sober thoughts. Indeed, she is my loud companion in my most lonely and emotionally tranquil hours; my conspicuously unseen source of joy in my desolate den of despondency and that precarious pit of despair, hopelessness and incarceration! Here, where the foot mat swoops duties with the dignity of man, subjecting the latter to untold and ridiculous abuse, thoughts of her illuminates my darkening and hollowed hell and baptizes my previously tensed lips with the smile of a lunatic.

And her photograph? Whoops! It serves as my sacred shrine where my constant confessions of love serve the required incantations for this picture-presence my goddess! And, my servile eyes closed in reverence of your love while my lips babble your soliloquizing eulogy, transforming me

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