Impact

He (with the bravery)

I liked to watch her.

I liked the way she looked and spoke...I liked the way she made me feel; like a silent civil war raging inside of me.

Today, she wore red. I always liked it when she wore red. It reminded me of velvet. She reminded me of velvet.
All soft and subtle; warm and sweet. Comfy and familiar. Homely.

She always stood out. Like a poppy in a field of daisies. She was oblivious to the greedy eyes that followed her; of the lust and jealously that hung around her wherever she went. She remained innocent, and pure as the first snowflake of winter. She was like an untarnished piece of silver; she was shiny and beautiful and blinding. She was like the whole universe in a second; all blinding colours and sparkling stars.

I wanted to know her name. I wanted to know her name almost as much as I wanted to kiss her. In my mind, I stood up from the cafeteria table I was sitting alone at. I strode over to her and she looked at me as if I was I were the tragedy to her tears.

Stopping in front of her, I would grab her artist hands and envelope them in my own. Then, leaning in, I would say, "My name is Michael, what's yours?". I would say it as a caress. I would let the vowels and consonants roll from my tongue. I would say it like she was a sunrise. I would speak to her as if I were a cloud and she was my silver lining. I would whisper her name like a prayer.

I would say it as if I'd already loved her for a thousand lifetimes.

That was, if I had ever spoken to her. If I'd ever touched her. If I'd ever approached her usual lunch table. If I'd ever gotten up from mine. If I'd ever had enough courage to touch a star.

But I didn't.

So I ducked my head and put my headphones back on. I closed my heart and let it fester and bleed. It felt good, in a way. The pain. It woke me up, and told me that I was still alive.

She killed me, but it was okay, because I loved her.