(It’s about those junctures at times, where I am stranded to look straight into those endearing eyes, and nothing more, about just that.)
I would peek into them and would gaze unto you, but because they seem slaughtering, I am only chicken to make moves. Resting on rue and awkwardness are my gestures then. The tranquility in them pesters and destructs, more than violence ever would even in most vigorous of its forms. With a battered organ and cherry feelings, I may buy you a coffee, but I am afflicted much ahead of any further course.
Formulation of you in the mind requires only an easy imagination and discounted creativity. Much of it gives me an excruciating time between those sentences in my academic readings, and also ruins my food. I gobble without ponder and consideration. I coarsely feel that if there’s ever a guy who genuinely likes you, and the guy is not me, there’s little point in my existence.
You make me like me, from your likeability; while walking on those tiles in around midnight and while sipping some alcohol and so much more while aloof. This new matrix is of course the better world for my living for any contrary mannerisms hereafter would suggest mammoth absurdity. Fragrance of love has in it almost everything. My inhibitions stare at you, and please do not budge. For those eyes are spilling with delight, and for those lips are harmony, for rejoice on your face is beam. Existentialism is grossly accounted for. If I may say your prettiness in a cliché manner directly and with similes like this, I could just blabber indefinitely. However even an ounce of confession would transpire that, whenever done, He seemed to have His ways well in place. To utter the least, He did terribly well. So much of symmetry in you validates a gigantic lot.
Smell you later…chicken.
