beautiful.
Beautiful. Standing outside. Misty eyed, soft smile. He’s
standing at the other side of the road. Your heart stills as he brushes his
unruly hair with his long fingers. He’s beautiful, you think. You can’t imagine
anyone being as beautiful as him.
He glances around and catches your eye. It’s amazing how he
even notices you, as you’re hidden in the shadows in a darkness so black you
almost disappear. He smiles brightly, a big toothy grin and your breath
catches. He is so fucking beautiful that it hurts to look at him.
He takes a step towards you and you don’t know whether to
run or to hide. You think that if he comes any closer, you may not be able to
conceal how you feel. He takes long strides towards you and you notice the long
length of his legs and the way his hair brushes the collar of his shirt.
Fuck.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, you think. You weren’t
supposed to feel this way about him. Ever. You are the last person that should
be looking at him this way, thinking about him this way, loving him this way.
Fuck, you love him. You don’t want to face that thought, because it seems so
dirty. And you aren’t dirty; you’re so clean it makes you sick, because if you
weren’t so clean, you could touch him and caress him without thinking. You
could tell him how you feel.
You’re fucked, you realize as he makes the last few steps to
stand beside you. You’re so fucked, it’s almost funny. In fact you laugh aloud,
softly and a little sadly. He turns to look at you, with an expression on his
face that you aren't sure how to read. Maybe he’s wondering why you haven’t
said a word to him, or why you’re laughing quietly or why you’re hanging out in
the shadows, watching him like some fucking stalker.
But then you look at him directly and you know. He knows.
You can see it in his eyes. Those oddly deep eyes. He lifts his hand and
strokes your face. He touches your nose, and caresses your cheek. He pets your
hair and brushes his fingers over your lips. He opens his mouth and speaks
softly, so softly that you’re not sure if it’s your imagination or him.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
And you know it has to be your imagination. And you look around
expecting him to be across the street but he’s still standing beside you. Misty
eyed, soft smile. His fingers floating through your hair. You can’t believe
it’s real. But it is and it’s beautiful.
___________