For reasons unknown, every time we were together. The radio, cafés, passers-by, all played songs of love. Cheesy, clichés, ballads.
“What must it take for one to write this kind of song?” He asked shuffling through the radio stations, driving under the cloudy nightsky.
“Falling in this kind of love, maybe.” I answered, humming to a song I knew of.
“I know nothing of this kind of love.” He admitted shaking his head, not changing the station upon noticing me singing along.
“You will.” I told him, who knew nothing of any kind of love, looking at him turning right.
“I don’t think so.” He smirked, confidently staring back at me.
“You’ll know. Wait till you slip up and fall.” I smiled at him, knowing very well that you never know when you fall. Not before hitting too hard. Too deep to recover. Not untill it starts smothering you. Then, you know it’s that kind of love.
– the incomplete verse