An Ode to She Who Is Most
“An ode to she who is most lovely and a regret to he who is least.”
To have been enchanted by moonlit lakes silver-lined is not the same as to have been enchanted truly. To have been tempted by gleaming golds and gems is not the same as to have been tempted purely. I am told only in face of angelic belles do mortal men fall spellbound thus, but I am certain that I’ve not yet died, so one could only imagine the bewilderment that befell me when I fell for her.
Life moves in trances unknown to the rational.
But perhaps it’s better that way, to not know.
To not know meant embracing every love with open arms, loving every embrace with open heart. I thought amidst her silent serenades and suppers, questions inquiring more questions, but at least I can tell this about her without question: she was perfect. Her gleam, a smile more mystifying than not, melts; in masquerades of perfume so entrancingly lovely, I felt.
She holds me in rapture whenever her eyes skips to mine across room. Lectures recede into the background streams as the air conditioner transforms into cool zephyrs and breeze across the room. In such sweet serenity her rich, umber eyes engulf me in a swirl of elegance; like gentle pond ripples, our ephemeral connection flowed about the pristine and wondrously silent classroom—there I sat so enchanted by just a single, emotionless glance.
And just like that—it ends.
Ends into oblivion as I blink away in sheer embarrassment. We’d made eye contact across the room, and I was red for having been caught red-handedly. This was about as daring as my heart could be, so we settled and wished for tomorrow, another chance.
Dedicated to Amanda Rose.
< < < < < < > > > > > >