He’s sitting there, heart on his sleeve,
and she’s staring at him,jaw set and unforgiving-
he’s left wanting, needing her
as she walks away.
He tries so hard to know her,
who she really is inside-
He tries so hard to see her,
through the elaborate mask behind which she hides-
He tries so hard to hold her,
her hand against his chest-
See, he likes to believe that hand also longs to hold him,
but is afraid of what would happen next.
He tries so hard to please her,
but the result is always the same:
a blank stare as all his hopes crash into the ground,
glass on concrete, shattered pieces of a dream,
and then he watches as she turns around
and walks away, it’s quite the tradition now.
It’s always been this way, he reasons, it’s just how
she shows her affection, if she held him,
if she showed him, showed him anything at all,
she wouldn’t be who she is, no, she wouldn’t be at all.
A beautiful statue,
on which a pedestal he erected she stands,
Stoic and quiet, eyes sharp and biting,
lips full-lipped and thin-lined,
her words come short, blunt,husky with disuse
and seemingly unwanted from her lips,
and she grimaces as he presents
yet another bouquet,
just another torquet for his hopeless hoping for a reaction,
something to specifically cherish while he cherishes it all.
See, he thinks that if he loves her enough,
that will make her stay,
will make that blank, loveless stare fade away.
See, he thinks if he does enough,
it’ll make her want him,
but it’s quite the tradition now,
her pushing him away.