Insanely Smitten Still (or An Evening in The Life Of Your Friendly Neighborhood Stalker)

The aircon drones like a tireless bee, an eternal a slave to its compulsion. The drapes have flowers and vines etched on them; its thickness however stops light from entering the room and they remain unseen. Out of sight, yes. But it does not mean they're not there. It's a small room, four by five feet. Under the circumstances it would have to do. His palace; his prison.

Time flies he told her once and she nodded. Years pass too. There she remains, locked somewhere between the rainy December evenings and foggy January midmornings. Somewhere in the coalescing memories, hazy and vivid at the same time. Always twentyone, always maddeningly beautiful, always with her clear bell-like laughter, always before he left, always with his love unspoken.

A dream is what she is. Someone so alive you'd think her photograph would speak. She stood beside him and time froze. She laughed and threw her head back as they walked and all else was a blur. The world was a haze of color and there she was in the middle of it. She smiled and the weight of the world did not matter. She argued relentlessly and badgered you with questions. Her eyes lit up and her brows furrowed; it was not possible yet she became more enchanting still.

A dream. So intense he'd be happy not to wake. Yet he does. The anguish is unbearable in the morning light. The drapes grudgingly give way to a few tendrils of light so life can tell him he's not with her. Will never be. He knows but can not erase her from his soul. There she remains. Her smile; her kind and patient eyes. Waving before she walks into her door. Out of his life. Forever.