An Ode to Oomes I wanted to write an ode for you. I thought it goes well with your surname. Ode. Oomes. An ode to Oomes. It has been in my head for so long, awaiting to be written on a sheet of paper. Passionately scribbled for you to read. I have clearly conceived the words I would use. The picture I would paint. All the elements I would weave to chisel out the beauty I witnessed. What would it contain? Your Plato-like intelligence. I thought you were a descendant of ancient philosophers. Your Narcissus-like face. I thought you were drawn from mythological pieces. Your Adonis-like figure. I thought you were sculpted after iconic deities. I have never adored someone like this before. It must be the alcohol. It must be the x. Or I must be romanticizing everything about you. A fool in love, they say. A fool who made you infallible. I made you a saint. I made you a god. I made you unattainable. I made you perfect. I have never been so wrong. So I am not writing one. To correct my distorted view of you. This is not an ode.