The phenomenon

Lots of grey matter there put to the trash bin. Looks like a girl in ordinary course, like the one next door, like you wouldn’t pick off the multitude, like one who wouldn’t sweep you over your feet, like she’s one of them, inhering all the tact of everyday life.

And then you walk over for you’ve met one of a regular nature. It’s only in the late evening that the deception of how all of it was only a beautiful lie stings. That ordinary lady weaves inroads, and you try to figure how all of it meandered into. With every encounter and the breezy, tiny dates with her, however, you feel those conventional butterflies in your belly. She captures all the frames of your brain, murders rest images, brutally robs your intellect and becomes desirable.
The dusky skin, the likeable nose, the frank eyes, the fake expressions and real ones, the high pitch voice, the clear syllables, the ordinariness, the energy, the care, the subtle sentences caress the thinking chain. When every other moment passes by it influences you to picture her, as if she has bought all of your time.

This all does happen over duration; however, the damage is irreparable. When you realise, like I do, that you have kind of serious one way feeling for her, the brain goes a wee bit blank. That I have a pen and a paper feels good, for her beauty reflects itself even here.

The sublime amalgamation of black and white which surfaces every now and then deepens the affinity. So much more when while talking she looks at you, and the lips only seem to synch what flows from her eyes.
She’s a congregation of feelings, much of it rejoice, and the grey shades making her more human.