You are searching for someone to lean on
someone to be with and somebody fun.
Have you found who you're looking for?
Are you still searching, or is he gone?
Here I am, staring at a screenful of blurry sights while you sit there behind me, solving equations. I hear you mutter incomprehensible stuff as clearly as I can hear the same music that has been grating my ears for the past 15 minutes. Good. At least your attention is occupied. The Fates forbid that you rise from your seat and look over my shoulder; I would have died of embarassment. Well, of course, blogging has always been a risk. Oh gawd, look at me, now I'm thinking like a giddy schoolgirl.
You really are a puzzle, you know? You never cease to come up with unexpected twists and surprises every now and then. Once, I saw a different side of you. Of course, I could readily see that you are a good artist; you have a talent I so direly need but lack. I also knew that you played with words but I never thought you played with them so well. Who would have known, that a very capable artist like you would also be a good writer? Mother Nature is so unfair.
Something else bothers me. How do you do it? When I read the poetry you have written, I was engulfed by a feeling of great sadness. You write very depressing poems: yet another talent I envy you for. However, you never really knew, did you? You never knew the one thing you have which I am so jealous of.
It's been raining for the past week. Sometimes, we're lucky enough to get home damp, but not soaked. You often bring a jacket while I use an umbrella. As luck would have it, it was raining in sheets and all we both have are our jackets. After minutes of walking through the rain, we're soaked to the skin. You sigh exasperatedly as you mutter something about the rain ruining your hair.
I like your hair when it rains, though. Each strand embraces the other, forming locks of spiky black, hightlighted by stray streaks of silver. I really wanted to run my hand through your hair but quickly caught myself in time, lest I arouse suspicion.
Yet, there's something else about rain and you. Everytime it rains, the cold frost descends from the high altitudes, but you were always warm. It's as though you are a miniaturized sun, exuding heat and warmth that easily spreads to all that comes into contact with you. You smell like crisp white sun-dried linen and more than once, I discreetly leaned in to smell your peculiar scent. I inhaled deeply and remembered well how you smelled, knowing that the time may come when I could no longer catch that scent from you again. It was so unbelievably warm, it was so... you. Right, you didn't believe in artificial fragrances, I recall.
Here I am, roughly half a year later. The cold and forbidding mists have lifted and the howling silence has given way to cricket-filled warm nights. Many a morning, I wake up, desperate to be with you and many a night I sigh, disappointed that the day must end. So many things have happened, but are they for real? Are they relevant to my dillema or are they the artifacts of wistful sighs and wishful thinking?
There were some days that certain, non-mainstream topics were discussed. You, like me, feigned light compliance to the widespread philosophy. Here and there, I gleaned what I hope to be pieces of information about who you really are. I suppose those were not enough as there had been a time when I could take the suspense no longer. Outright I had asked your opinion and I was more than releived that, at the very least, you are open-minded. Not that I am condemning th rest as bigoted bastards; I'm simply giving them the benefit of the doubt.
Really now, I don't know why I'm ranting. Maybe it's because some jerk had, through a very low-down trick I was stupid enough to fall into, found out about my feelings towards to. Maybe it's because, yet again, I had glimpsed my ex, or what I thought looked like my ex. Maybe it's because I really miss you a lot since I haven't seen much of you during the hell weeks of academic crap I've been cramming. Maybe it's because I'm sorely frustrated that I paid quite a sum for a poison that never worked because I've been drinking a glass of milk a day. Maybe it's because I'm horribly disappointed that my plan to tell you how I feel had gone awry and that, in all possibilities, you still probably are oblivious to the real me.
I think I should give up on hope. Things will probably be easier that way. Someday, though, I will tell you how I feel. Maybe that time, I'd probably be numb enough you could scream at me, reject me, punch me in the face and demand that I take back while I feel no dejection, no depression and no more regrets.
Love should not do this to me, but why does it?
It's as cold as rain on a silent day.
It's as fleeting as a butterfly dream.
It's the sunset in the middle of the day.
It's the glimpse of me your eyes had caught.
