Anonymous

The smallest detail of his face makes me smile, the pale blue in his eyes, stars twinkling in them when a new idea strikes him. I listen to the scratch of his pen upon the paper, his genius flowing out of his mind like a river and onto the blue lines in black ink. When he reads, his lips, the most gentle shade of pink, make me wonder what it would be like to feel my kiss upon his.1

My heart jumps into my throat when he smiles, breaking through his image of teen angst, imagining his head in his hands, wanting to shed tears, but instead yelling out in frustration at the complications of life. He looks up, his eyes shining in the dark through his long brown locks.2

His philosophies of life and society are warped and twisted, unbelieved by those called normal, astounding people like me, who never imagined another like myself existing.3

When he leaves, it's almost in slow motion. He turns away, as though a character from a movie, so unreal.4

As I write this, my cheeks redden and the butterflies in my stomach take flight. Though I can't see us to be, I would be glad to feel his kiss just once upon his lips, slow and gentle, making me melt away in his arms.5

Another claims him as does me. Obsession doesn't overtake me as it has before.6

Do I love him? Does he care? These questions shall remain for fate to answer. For no matter the circumstance, in my dreams he shall remain, watching him walk into the sun, indian flutes playing as the sky fades into the coming night, violins bidding his farewell.7