To Infatuate

When the present is a gift

Three years have gone by since the first time we’ve met. I’ve never been able to decide what it is that caught me from your eyes. Perhaps it was the absence of understanding, the myriad of thoughts that prevailed from the roundabout where our eyes greeted one another. Coming from different directions, it was a chaos of silenced admiration and unrequited desire. 
As if time and space agreed with predestined decisions to have this all happen but made sure to deny legibility through my preoccupied eyes. It all appeared to me as a bulletin board filled with imprecise information for me to figure out and solve into place. Unfortunately, the puzzle had a few too many pieces missing. A game of connect-the-dots requiring too much freehand and between those dots lived great distances; distances that were not measurable in numbers but in time. 

I wanted to see it all as another math problem but it soon became one with no retakes, no grade and no correction pen. Unparalleled to whatever you could put on paper, your hazel brown irises fiddled with everything I have ever known. I was ready to shape myself into the person you would want me to be, only to fathom that I couldn’t be anyone else but myself. One’s being exists as this gilded anchor that prevents them from moving anywhere further than the length of the chain that is caught on their ankle. I denied. Then I accepted.

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A quick scroll down a list of names and yours appeared. 3 years later, here I am, in Paris, and so are you. I stared. Physically motionless and mentally in a mess, I recapitulated. Timing appeared closer but still remained too far from my side"I saw your face again. Your serene stare with lips asleep on a horizon of unspoken words. By the window, the honest reflection of your profile had me looking obliviously at the city lights but solely seeing the curls of your eyelashes brushing through the air as your eyelids freed your stare straight into mine. It seemed as though my past has faded and the future waited for the present to resume its infinite stroll.

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The waves tumbled and ripples spread. Your voice like the scent of a flower, carried your character on this danish lilt. You spoke the simplest words but my brain was unable to decipher the which, the what and the why; the English language escaped my reach at that point. Simultaneously, I had to understand and respond to the things you were addressing me while strangling the butterflies that were rambling inside my stomach. The tungsten light cared to exhibit your diaphanous hair, swaying subtly upon your shoulder. It was fascinating the way the different colours of your body dwelled in such harmony. Your eyes carefully blended with your hair that slept on your spotless skin. An appetence for your touch conquered me to the tip of my fingers. How forgivingly cruel.

Author's Note

Most likely to have grammar problems