I’m funny. I can make you laugh. I can talk. I can tell you stories. It's not enough though. Cliché. But it's not enough.

I’ll say something rash then; I hate the way we talk. Undressing the words, toeing the lines, unspeaking our invites. We subject ourselves to subtleties, glances and flutters of emotions. Bittersweet words toss and turn in my mouth in a deliberate turmoil. I always find it so hard to catch your feelings so I pretended I know nothing of it. Because I'm not her. Not a dream girl. Cliché. But it doesn’t make me anything like her. Not even close.

Don’t look at me with the corners of your mouth upturned. You’ve no idea how your smile works on me. Lighting up my whole heart, setting it on fire with wanton hopes and silly dreams, burning it to nothing but cinders. I’ll say something impulsive; you got the most amazing smile. Cliché. But it doesn’t make it less true. Doesn’t make my heart start beating slower.

Just sitting there, transfixed, enthralled. Sometimes, I wonder if only, if only, my feelings could translate into words. A little blind courage and hotheaded moments. Maybe things might turn out differently? But the truth is, I’m afraid of giving my best shot, and getting it thrown back at my face. I'm afraid of getting silence. I’m terrified of having hope. Because I don’t think I can take another disappointment. I'm petrified at the prospect of failing. Cliché. But it doesn’t make the fear less real.

If only you knew, the power you have over me, held so flippantly in your hands. You're the sound of a summer sunset. The tingle of the cobalt night. As I sit there, my heart continues to overflow. And I realize I don’t need an affirmation. Or an answer. I don’t want to choose the comfort of knowing over the possibility of true happiness. All I want is to be happy. Cliché.

Happiness is a cliché. Yet it doesn’t make me want it any lesser than anybody else.