He Watches Her
He walked down the stairs swiftly yet without purpose. It was late but not too much so. Work was finished and his room cold and uninviting. A snoring boy, a flickering light, a storm outside. All things to make one calm. Something inside him was restless. At the foot of the stairs he stops with one quick glance around whirling thoughts abruptly seize. A girl was sitting there writing in front of a dwindling fire. A few others were in the room, she was by far not alone yet not with any one. He sat, a distance away, one with the shadows, a silent figure in midnight calm. He sat. And watched her.
Curled up in a blanket a book perched on one knee. Intense concentration on her face. The same concentration he held on his own, watching her. Looking at her with the apt attention of an infant seeing the world for a first time. An endless mystery, an amazing puzzle never able to be grasped for understanding. The room growing dark by the hands of time made the play of light on her face seemingly unearthly. Freckles stood out on her pale face, encompassed by a wave of auburn hair.
For weeks watching this silent stranger was as if watching a blanket slowly unweave its pattern. The unfolding of a silken cloth. A manifesting enlightenment, an awareness unknown yesterday surges forth. Silent dances of twisting fates. Perhaps, if only, maybe one day, could it be? Feelings unknown in cavernous space threaten to conquer this lost soul. As he watches her. Hearing her voice like a leaf in the wind, slowly makes it presence known. Hearing it once in past is seemingly ageless in memory shattered and remembered anew when upon his ears it floats. He knows not of the meaning of all this only that a pressure is put upon him. Pressure to be there beside her. To learn more, to simply be.
Yet he only watches her. Sitting in growing shadows a figure enters the room. Unbelievably content in this increasingly uncertain place. A place between fiction and reality, between awake and dreaming, between the calm and the storm. This figure sits beside her, shattering the spell surrounding, a place that is heaven and hell, an ecstasy or impending doom. The figure, tall with brown hair, a boy, a man in his own right too seems ensnared in her spell, the mystical weaving that she alone seems to cast upon those who are mortal in comparison. This figure smiled at her words spoken to him, gathered her hand in his, encasing that lovely hand in his coarse one, a stark contras, beauty versus the beast. Sadness knowing no time nor bounds finds its way in. As he watches her. With someone one else.
He arises, takes a step and yet another leading away from the two people, just an observer into their world, an intruder. He reaches the stairs, a lone figure, turns away and takes a step far from where he'd like to be. Back up to his room cold and univiting. A snoring boy, a flickering light, a storm outside. But in his mind, his memory, he watches her.
He walked down the stairs swiftly yet without purpose. It was late but not too much so. Work was finished and his room cold and uninviting. A snoring boy, a flickering light, a storm outside. All things to make one calm. Something inside him was restless. At the foot of the stairs he stops with one quick glance around whirling thoughts abruptly seize. A girl was sitting there writing in front of a dwindling fire. A few others were in the room, she was by far not alone yet not with any one. He sat, a distance away, one with the shadows, a silent figure in midnight calm. He sat. And watched her.
Curled up in a blanket a book perched on one knee. Intense concentration on her face. The same concentration he held on his own, watching her. Looking at her with the apt attention of an infant seeing the world for a first time. An endless mystery, an amazing puzzle never able to be grasped for understanding. The room growing dark by the hands of time made the play of light on her face seemingly unearthly. Freckles stood out on her pale face, encompassed by a wave of auburn hair.
For weeks watching this silent stranger was as if watching a blanket slowly unweave its pattern. The unfolding of a silken cloth. A manifesting enlightenment, an awareness unknown yesterday surges forth. Silent dances of twisting fates. Perhaps, if only, maybe one day, could it be? Feelings unknown in cavernous space threaten to conquer this lost soul. As he watches her. Hearing her voice like a leaf in the wind, slowly makes it presence known. Hearing it once in past is seemingly ageless in memory shattered and remembered anew when upon his ears it floats. He knows not of the meaning of all this only that a pressure is put upon him. Pressure to be there beside her. To learn more, to simply be.
Yet he only watches her. Sitting in growing shadows a figure enters the room. Unbelievably content in this increasingly uncertain place. A place between fiction and reality, between awake and dreaming, between the calm and the storm. This figure sits beside her, shattering the spell surrounding, a place that is heaven and hell, an ecstasy or impending doom. The figure, tall with brown hair, a boy, a man in his own right too seems ensnared in her spell, the mystical weaving that she alone seems to cast upon those who are mortal in comparison. This figure smiled at her words spoken to him, gathered her hand in his, encasing that lovely hand in his coarse one, a stark contras, beauty versus the beast. Sadness knowing no time nor bounds finds its way in. As he watches her. With someone one else.
He arises, takes a step and yet another leading away from the two people, just an observer into their world, an intruder. He reaches the stairs, a lone figure, turns away and takes a step far from where he'd like to be. Back up to his room cold and univiting. A snoring boy, a flickering light, a storm outside. But in his mind, his memory, he watches her.