Monday, February 07, 2011
Her brow is tainted with furrows of a lovelorn. She is demure in a peculiar way. She walks theatrically, blinks loudly and sips her tea on high volume. The ghosts of next door rooms and corridors let her pass, sometimes with or without a second glance. He wonders about her, more often than he should, more often than he'd like, more often than was probably allowed. He pushes her hair away from her face when they're together, to feel helpless in those quicksand eyes. Her scent is making his breath short and quick. Earlier, she had made the mistake of hiding in his open coat. He had not stopped thinking about her for a single second after that. She brought with her a kind of disturbance in his life that he had been acutely unaware of. His chest was shut tight for days after she obligatorily left; when she would return was unbeknownst to him. Sometimes when they would stand side by side, he'd sneak a glance at her. She was short, far down from him, but her person made him feel extraordinarily small. Where did she stow away her warmth and kindness? Her sorrow and her pity? Her love and her jealousy? He felt like her being was an abyss. He could fall into her and quite possibly never come out.