Adoxography

I promise I only gazed upon you for a lifetime.

It really was no time at all.

It happened late autumn when the leaves had just begun to fall.

I pictured you there from dawn until twilight. I thought profoundly about only you as I turned out the light and murmured a little prayer before my head hit the pillow. I care too much, I would say to myself, always in a rush to hasten the future along, but it perpetually had ended with me forbidding this nonsense to flourish. My hands gripping the edges of the mattress to abstain myself from the thought. For who am I to look upon a fond face if you are not aware that it is I?

I would think about the new drapes in your windows and the dew upon your lips as you slept. And how your eyebrows would furrow in the middle as you day dreamed late in the evening. My feelings for you convulsed me to stare; I could not pull my eyes away as you passed. I should burrow them, but your face was like a beam of light at the end of a foreboding hallway.

You seemed to glide by all too brisk for me to glimpse your dimples or count each freckle on your perfectly symmetrical face. I wanted desperately to hold it in my hands clasped between my palms, and pucker your lips with my fingers as I look into your astral eyes and whisper through clenched teeth sweet nothings only you can distinguish. I wanted to tell you your skin is woven from gold and your eyes are but sheets of ravishing color and your bones must be contrived of the lightest marrow to form a frame as intangible as your own. Alas, you did not ponder the poetry I left on your windowsill, nor acknowledge my presence. Why do I feel like an insignificant blade of grass contriturated under the tread of those who fight hand and fist for your affection?

So I continue in this obscured delusion that possibly one day I will be made impassible and you may consider me no longer as the person who wistfully beholds your physique? And maybe you could come to think of me as a being worthy of your adoration. I slink in shadows to avoid your chilling eyes that pass over me in an uneasy shift. Perhaps I make you queasy or the thought of my parched, gaunt hands on yours drives you up the wall, but honestly what is that compared to passion? Who are you to run from me and deny our obvious attraction?

Woe is to the one whose heart has fallen for the one that would supply the luster of life!

Woe is to the lover whose deluge of tears fall for the one that refuses to muster the courage to beseech the other!

Why must my efforts be in vain? Why must you cause me gut wrenching pain! And why must I continue to stare although your back has been turned and looking over my own shoulder at your raven locks never gives satisfaction?

Because in the night I know I will continue to dream about your bare, iridescent skin in the afternoon sunlight and the way clocks reverse time when I see even an impression of your face, and I will never obliterate the memory of you from my brain. It is eternally seared into my cranium and the agony of my scorched skin still aches in my head.