She looked at me. She actually looked at me.

The heart is pounding. The sweat rolls down and away, it glistens.  

I can feel every bone in this body, every nerve in this shell. I cannot move, cannot think, or else I will collapse onto these knees of mine - and every breath I take be quashed and suffocated against the grainy, cold and hard cement beneath me.

But she is leaving, I can see through my fevered, red-rimmed eyes. She is walking away from my sight, closing herself off from my view. I have no choice but to follow. It is not as if I choose to match each step she makes with my own two feet. Not as though when her small, slender legs speed up, I consciously do the same.

It is the sickness; I beg you listen to me.

The fault of this disease – it’s desire once took hold of me, shook me, and whispered in my ear, in it’s devilish voice that it would never let go – at least until the day I stopped breaking out into a sweat at the sight of her, until the day my heart kept it’s pace at the thought of her. But that hasn’t happened yet, has it?

She turns a corner and I panic, thinking that I’ve lost her.

But no, my loyal feet bring me to her. I am less than three feet away. I watch each boot-clad foot lift up away from the ground, in musical rhythm with the other, the pair playing a game with the ground beneath it.

I want to be the ground beneath those feet - no, I want to be the red coat adorning that small, pixie-like figure. I want to be the red lipstick on those lips, where the upper half is thin, and the bottom half plump. I yearn to be the golden curls, wrapping myself around the small, square shoulders and lissome back.  I desire to be the crystalline chandelier earrings; caressing those soft rose-colored cheeks with the bump of every step that she takes.

Take all of this in, because it is in the eyes of a fevered stalker.

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No plot, no guidelines...

Just from the emotional viewpoint of a harmless "stalker".

updated Dec 30 '09 by RomancingtheTurkey