on 4.6.04 @ 4:41 p.m.
I am ashamed of not being ashamed of my last entry. I don't think I can allow myself to rant on such a pretty day. Lalala. I have a horrible urge to write, but I know not what to write. Ha.
There was a raw passion in his eyes that sometimes scared her, sometimes smothered her entire being. She knew not why he never acknowledged this. Had he never seen himself in the mirror? Or maybe the only passion she saw was a mere reflection of her eyes in his. For a moment in time, she saw only herself in those dark pools of murky blue. He was not beautiful.
Can that be categorized into poetry?
Tonight I'll stay up. She repeated the phrase over and over again in her mind. Tonight I'll watch him sleep. She saw the rise and fall of his chest growing more constant. She knew. Her elbows propped her head up, and to an outsider she would have seemed to be a ghost. To an outsider she would be invisible. She was invisible. His lashes were so long, his hair so tousled. Her fingers unconsiously traced themselves over his lips. He was so beautiful.