A/N: This could be interpreted in several ways really, take it as you will. I like to think that it's from the pov of Will when he and Elizabeth are still not together. (set early in the first movie)
disclaimer: All I own is my writing style--not potc, much to my dismay and anguish. Honestly, I don't even own this computer.
Desperation roots itself within every fiber of my being, sending small, sharp, splintery, treacherous fingers lancing through the fragile muscles in my ever-beating heart. It makes its home within the deepest depths of my mind, planting a feverish desire there that further spreads to the blood stream, shooting to every section of my body, making limbs limp and languid with excess, unused energy and a fierce desire for something I shall never have—a love that is more than platonic. I am outwardly polite, hopeful, but I contain a darkness, a bitterness, a hard shell of emotional stone. Beneath, I am a writhing, tortured being, malleable and impressionable. If I could but be loved by she who cannot love me, I should be pained no longer, but asshe has not—nay, will not love me—I still feel shards of desperation, biting into my emotional health, leaving bleeding, oozing wounds that shall not in the foreseeable future mend.
A/N: On second thought, it could also be from the pov of Norrington after what I like to call, 'the Rejection.' As I said, take it as you will. Reviews are appreciated. The language of this piece may be rather archaic, but it's probably because I just read Jane Eyre. Which is a good book by the way; read it if you haven't.