There is a certain pleasure in appreciating the beauty of a blooming flower in a garden. There is a certain pleasure in indulging one’s self in your sickle-shaped eyes; in drinking in the oasis of your smile splayed forth from a simple yet carefully practiced and rehearsed joke. There is a certain pleasure in fantasizing about the days and months ahead, moving perpetually closer to you until we are both focussed under the same spotlight: the spotlight of envious eyes who wish they’d have a chance to hold you in their arms.
And yet, I am one of them. One in the long line of admirers your innocent eyes never seem to see. Another of those who long for the joys of pining in your sight; of touching the beautifully smooth brow and lips encasing such a radiant smile. No messenger has sent forth his letters yet that you have accepted; you have not allowed anyone to caress or corrupt your perfect nature that only you are entitled to.
For oftentimes, I forget that you are a star. I forget that I’m a comet. I forget you’re hot, and I’m just a frozen rock speeding around you, orbiting you so faithfully though you will never turn and bless me with a look of anything beyond our basic assumed friendship. For you assume too much: you assume that the mere friend I am in your eyes is reciprocated completely from my eyes. Your innocence does not assume that my intentions lie in the depths of your soul that no other has reached; your innocence does not assume that I notice the way you brushed your hair today so that your ears just poke out of it, or the beautiful blemishes left upon your face by the bountiful compliments received from earlier.
I have been starstruck: you were ascending the stairs to heaven as I went down the other place, our eyes met for a moment. Temptations that tripped me and threw me down the steps, falling at the base of hell, though I cannot enter that place, for I know your angelic beauty is best suited for my eyes, and the warmth from your burning core shrouds me in a drug of which you are the pill and the high.
You do not know how deep this well of writing runs; no pollutant stains this aquifer, and you do not know how plentiful the reserves of rivers and lakes run teeming with a fresh infatuation of you. I could write this forever; the pen of this heart shall never run dry for these lines; the scarcity of which you’d be honoured to know, for no other receives these words as I shall pour out and overflow the page for you.
And yet, I am still here. Still writing, as she mills about, casting her smile at everyone who prompts it; her sheer innocence not understanding that they want more.
I want more. For I know that even if I somehow managed to pull your celestial presence towards me for a second, I’d be tarnishing the intricacy of your beauty. You are something that deserves to put on a shelf and admired by all until you find the one who is worthy to hold your flaming essence and pull your orbit into his. Until then, I’m still here, writing about the delicate swooshes of her eyebrows and perfectly forming nose. Until then, I’m still an idealist; somehow hoping that I will be the one who is entitled to caress and not corrupt; to admire and not assault.
I will be here forever: your friendly admirer off to the side – someone who you will never give a second glance after he tells a joke though he may hope to see a hint of something lingering on her face. I will be here forever to record every time your cheekbones rise as your smile rests so gracefully on your face, to bathe in the honey and syrup of your angelic laughter. I will be here forever – my orbit of you shall never cease though I recognize my mass won’t hold an inkling of importance to you. I will be here forever to welcome you if you decide that I am worthy of your touch; if I am worthy to be the harbinger of love yet to come, if I am worthy to be the first sampler of the rose on your lips.
this hopeless romantic
This piece is incredibly important to me. I won’t talk about the specifics of the writing, as I don’t want to be known as ‘Mr. Romance,’ but I do recognize that this is a piece that I never could have written last year. My writing journey began with me as an individual scared to try new things; nothing poetic, and definitely nothing about my feelings. One fateful day in creative writing class, I was ill-fated enough to be forced into sharing my romantic musings for the first time, and eventually, this developed into so much more writing for me. But before that even happened, I went through an awakening of idealism; I realized that I had a voice that I could honour and let flourish, or be embarrassed of and hide away. I evidently made the right choice, and I hope my newfound confidence in trying new writing can produce some excellent work. Certainly, there is a level of finesse and tentative balance that exists between hopeless romanticism and stoic security. As for my own life, I have no idea to navigate such waters, although I don’t think that’ll be a concern for me (at least for now.)
I thank you for reading this and witnessing my exasperated sighs of emotion that I seek to help me further myself in the world of writing, and the realm of infinite possibility that lies within it.