A/N: Okay. It's angst again, yes, but quite mild. I thought the ending rather sucked, but I'm too tired to give a damn.
Feedback would be very much appreciated, and if you want them replied to, leave an email address along with your pen name.
by Elysian Shades
Her breath makes mists in the cold air, stippled white and cloudy as if by painter's brush. She watches his movements, deliberately gentle and moving and slow, and she is drawn by the careful sweeps and arcs that he makes with his hands (such beautiful hands, she thinks) when he speaks.
His fingers filter through corn silk hair; she files the sight into memory.
His lips pull upwards in an expression of mirth; she blesses his smile.
His mouth forms speech; she clasps the words close to her heart.
And still he does not see her, watching and waiting and hoping that he will.
His slender form stills and faster still her heart beats. She sees nothing but his person; hears nothing but his voice and the erratic pounding of her heart; feels nothing but his presence drawing close, close and closer still to hers.
There is little that she has that she thinks he might want, but nothing of what she has she will not want to give. She prays for him to be in need, but if only for her need to satisfy his.
But she will never be noticed, will always remain forgotten, the little girl with the obscene obsession, always watching and waiting and wasting away.
Just like the rest of us.