To Feel Hopeful and Somehow Lost As Well

Floating gently with the waves.

It’s sometimes difficult to latch onto hope, on days like these, when I wake up ill and can’t know if your thumb is feeling any better. The little flames curling up your arm looked ravishing and lick-worthy — at least on first glance for Monday morning. Your jacket looks soft — she’s very lucky to get to see you in that dark thing; it tends to complement your dark-blonde curls very well.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully understand my thing for piercing blue eyes. I just seem to be drawn to them, as if they’re trying to conspire with my gaze, to initiate covert operations of a decidedly sinister nature. That you would deign to ask after my health on Tuesday knocked me off-balance; that was so unexpected that it left me lost for words — very sneaky of you.

I have to start to acknowledge your flaws, however. It’s crucial for me to look beyond the tank-like physique, the captivating voice, and the shy reticence which would be flirtatious if you were at all aware of it — instead it’s just unwitting casual cruelty at best and malignant mischief at worst. The experience of being unable to decide, one way or another, whether you are worth falling head-first with into the open water of love; is maddening and somewhat unprecedented. It’s never been this difficult to decide before, but then again, only once in the past has there been a blonde-haired female belle to throw everything into a perplexing conundrum.


The piercing blue eyes don’t help at all. In tandem with your eclectic fashion sense, they carry me away to the world of fantasy — and I no longer wish to return to whatever reality has to offer. In itself, that is the greatest tragedy; that I cannot tell myself to get a grip and let go of an unattainable man, even one as nonchalantly sexy as yourself. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, fortuna smiles down upon the barbie-like multi-dimensional creature of the female disposition that has you all to herself.

The things that you do every single day are hypnotic — as spellbinding as water weaving through the silt-swollen delta that meets the Bay of Bengal. I watch you earnestly absorb every little detail from our lecture slides, managing to come off as effortlessly alluring. The brown band on your wrist only quickens my heartbeat a few more paces; the tempo accelerates as you write — so, so neatly, I am lost for words once more.

I stare silently into the washroom mirror. “Snap out of it!” I pinch the skin my arm, hard. I bare my teeth at the pane of glass; easily the worst part of any day, to gaze upon the mass imperfection that is my face. I find little that could be described as compelling, apart from my eyes (altered by laser treatment). Perhaps. Maybe if I smile … no, my eyebrows are too thick, my nose too misshapen, my lips too full and my tongue over-ready to spout off ‘google-able’ knowledge at a hundred sentences per quarter-hour. My skin is pockmarked by a never-ending curse of over-active pores. My face resembles the Ring of Fire — “Will you ever stop lusting after someone else’s man?” I almost yell at myself out loud.


Completed on July 27, 2016.

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