What He Doesn't Know Will Slowly Kill Me

August 2, 2014 (3 years ago)
Posted in Blog: English | Categories: Non-Erotic | Tags: , ,

What He Doesn't Know Will Slowly Kill Me“I have written verses in your name in my head with the blood of my heart.

I have painted you in different hues and shapes in my mind’s eye with the shades from a dreamer’s irises.

I have sung forgotten ballads I have once forsaken for tunes raw, smooth, and sharp.

I have read and reread tales of magic in the night and see your name in the stars.

I have done all the things a fool on the brink of falling did but I have yet to pen your name in swirls of violet on paper for the world to see because you are secret I want to keep. I want to keep you unwritten on a parchment that I keep close to my heart.

I want to hide, not from you but with you from the eyes of the world. I want to be locked in a world within a world – a place only we know.”

Unrequited love sucks, I said to myself.

I sat across from him and silently pondered on how he could be so captivated by those words in which his eyes paced from left to right. We were in an overpriced-coffee shop, as he would always say. He would complain about how everything was overpriced and yet he would meet me here every single time. He said it was because I wanted to.

He traced each line from top to bottom. As he continued, ever so often, a smirk would come across his face and what sounded like a subtle giggle. Yes, he giggles. It was faint and an almost unnoticeable sound but charming. He was charming.

But really, the most captivating thing was him - how he was so mesmerizing in the flesh. And I could not help myself but stare at him hopelessly awaiting his attention. Never once did he lift his head and break concentration, that is, until I softly whispered his name.

“You’re done reading?” I asked.

“Yes,” was his reply.

“And?” I perused his facial expression for a hint of his reaction.

“Do I need to say it out loud?” He smiled then. “You know I’m a big fan of your writings. I already told you that two to three years ago.” He playfully chucked me under my chin.

“I know.” I told him. “But I still like hearing you say it anyway.” That fleeting touch of his skin on my skin made me crave for more.

And then our eyes met. His eyes…. They are a true work of art. The windows to his soul in which I feel like I have so freely escaped from the world around me into another dimension. The depth in which his irises carried me was unexplainable.

In that moment I realized it was him that was the true work of art. I finally surrendered to the notion that I would spend the rest of my life trying to decipher the story that his piercing eyes told.

He was the great escape and my world, personified.

But I wouldn’t tell him that. He doesn’t have to know... Read More

About the Author :

Joined: April 7, 2014 (4 years old)
Writings: 48

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What is a Writer?

A good writer is also a good storyteller. He/she must ensnare the minds of the readers, trap them in a mind world that would make them believe what is happening is real, make them feel every stroke, feel every kiss, feel that final blow, and feel that explosion.


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