You ever sit next to or near someone and yearned to talk to, or even to touch them? Or simply so much as just say "hello"? Perhaps even to merely pay them a compliment: "You have beautiful hands," hoping at most for a smile in response. A chance to hold their hand of course would be even better. How about the pine to intertwine in the isolation of a spontaneous conversation about nothing, simply a plotting gesture to get a better look at what you gleam from aching side glances to be an attractive visage. A countenance made of rolling lips, eyes to fall into, or wrinkles that you want to stretch and wrap around you to whisper their intimate secrets and wisdom gained. Or maybe just to ask him or her if they are happy or satisfied; if only to garner some soothing empathy, or perhaps ask them to enlighten you if they are, or, if not , perhaps to plot some fantasy for mutual rectification. How about just the inclination just to ask for help with a word, a sincere request the behest of which would allow you to complete a critical sentence and the denial of which irks you to no end, because you know it is an innocent question, but for no good reason other than that they might look at you funny are afraid to ask. Or maybe it is that with this one word you have the urge to incite some intrigue in the interesting person you know yourself to be, a whole new world for them to explore while you traverse through theirs. You burn eagerly to offer this one bite to pique. Do you ever sit next to someone and pine to ask them "why" or "where" or "when," if only to have them imagine another less appropriate or more exciting life? Do you?
What is it that we gain in empty pursuits, when we make a conscious step closer, or pick a seat next to someone quite appealing to the eye, knowing we will only sigh and not say a word?
Chance.
That is all, simply a better opportunity to overcome probability, to believe in these fleeting moments that you will build enough courage to say anything, or that something will be said to you. Or that you might be able to allude to your reasoning for this reaction to their movement, by paying a compliment or two, even if like all those other times, it remains unlikely you will.
Still, you step closer, or position for a shoulder rub or glance above to have a glimpse of her below or by looking at her toes imagine the details of the rest of her, hoping that a sudden smile while you are agawk might spark a random conversation. Yet, with predictable consternation you go on reading the same sentence in your book—over and over— until the point when your stop approaches and encroached on this recurring fantasy.
the art of love
l.m