Pining in the pines

More than owning her, I ended up owning things around her. Maybe love was a novelty displaced by other novelties of the social-ness she brought me into, but it correlated with her original complaint, that I have been more about the mountains than about her highness. She got it a bit wrong there. Our individual perceptions can't collude well, even when in love; its what makes us unique and in some way gives us an identity. She considered my novelty worn off, directed elsewhere and considered it over.

Well, comparing love to a coat of paint - that dazzles when fresh and barely catches an eye after going through the elements - is plain wrong. A new metaphor is needed. That of rains is fitting - the ongoing monsoons when Kharif crops are sown inspires me to it. 
Agreed that after the novelty of the fresh rains that had irrigated my fallow heart, the earth got thirsty again, but the seeds dormant inside were sprouting into a plant and taking roots. Oh, why couldn't she have waited for the rain again?

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