LOVE
He spent too many days at the desk, hunched over a clean piece of paper with a mug of coffee at the ready. The trash can flowed over with the countless paper balls, crushed in frustration and flung in anger as he thought of the words that would not come to mind. Yet he didn't mind it. If it would reach her, he wouldn't mind anything. He stayed that way for days and weeks, leaving the desk before the tiny window only when an urgent need arose. Nothing else would pull him away from the dreary room in which he hardly slept.
The months saw ink scrawled across paper repeatedly; the same words, most of the time different - all for the same purpose. He loved her and she wouldn't know until he'd accomplished the task at hand. He strove for perfection, moulding his words and lines that they flowed like silk on water. And like water, blood came from the back of his throat as he coughed into a worn palm. He ignored this, absolute in commitment and devoted - so devoted, unwilling to receive treatment. Not until he was done.
And when he was done he read it over time and again, more satisfied than he'd ever been. It was perfect, he nodded in silence, to relate fully the origins, the length and the expanse of his love. She would understand, he was sure.
He spent the next month watching her in the dark. There was always a place where her light wouldn't shine and he was there. He looked on, admiring her smile and imagining his hands through her hair. And through this time he never got better. Nonetheless he waited. Patiently, he sought a time when she would be alone. For then he could show her his masterpiece, and they would be alone. Even if it was to be for a fleeting moment, he would be happy. To see her smile inches from where he stood would mean the world.
But that time never came. It didn't come for a month, and soon a year. She'd found someone to give her heart to, and she gave it wholly and willingly. Yet he watched her, on and on as she loved and was loved in return. He ailed, it deteriorated, and he would die. Yet he was still determined. He still waited to tell her; while his courage was never strong enough.
She loved another, and he watched as she cried and laughed. She never saw him, while all he saw was her. He would change this; she would know of his efforts. And he waited for his courage to drive him. He waited for that urge - the similar one which compelled him to write for her - and when it came he was overjoyed.
He went to her, as she waited for a certain someone. She smiled as he sat by her, the whole time gazing into the distance. He took her beautiful hand and cried inside as he watched her slender fingers grasp the letter. Then his eyes ran over her features, wishing that he would be the one to touch them gently instead of the man she waited for. He left then, relieved that she had it in her hands.
He was happy as he lay on the bed in his dark room, prepared to take his last breath without regret. His carefully crafted piece - telling the story of his love as he would have should the gift of speech be endowed upon him - it was with her, and she would finally understand.
But she left it on the bench as her love came to meet her, as her eyes - beautiful as they were - could not see; for too many days.
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// I have to stop writing these random, plot-less short pieces.. It's not good for me. ;;. Nonetheless, if anyone's asking about my incomplete piece, I will complete it. Just. give me time. I don't want to force myself to write something I have no inspiration for. ^^;; And as usual, I'm open to constructive criticism. //
He spent too many days at the desk, hunched over a clean piece of paper with a mug of coffee at the ready. The trash can flowed over with the countless paper balls, crushed in frustration and flung in anger as he thought of the words that would not come to mind. Yet he didn't mind it. If it would reach her, he wouldn't mind anything. He stayed that way for days and weeks, leaving the desk before the tiny window only when an urgent need arose. Nothing else would pull him away from the dreary room in which he hardly slept.
The months saw ink scrawled across paper repeatedly; the same words, most of the time different - all for the same purpose. He loved her and she wouldn't know until he'd accomplished the task at hand. He strove for perfection, moulding his words and lines that they flowed like silk on water. And like water, blood came from the back of his throat as he coughed into a worn palm. He ignored this, absolute in commitment and devoted - so devoted, unwilling to receive treatment. Not until he was done.
And when he was done he read it over time and again, more satisfied than he'd ever been. It was perfect, he nodded in silence, to relate fully the origins, the length and the expanse of his love. She would understand, he was sure.
He spent the next month watching her in the dark. There was always a place where her light wouldn't shine and he was there. He looked on, admiring her smile and imagining his hands through her hair. And through this time he never got better. Nonetheless he waited. Patiently, he sought a time when she would be alone. For then he could show her his masterpiece, and they would be alone. Even if it was to be for a fleeting moment, he would be happy. To see her smile inches from where he stood would mean the world.
But that time never came. It didn't come for a month, and soon a year. She'd found someone to give her heart to, and she gave it wholly and willingly. Yet he watched her, on and on as she loved and was loved in return. He ailed, it deteriorated, and he would die. Yet he was still determined. He still waited to tell her; while his courage was never strong enough.
She loved another, and he watched as she cried and laughed. She never saw him, while all he saw was her. He would change this; she would know of his efforts. And he waited for his courage to drive him. He waited for that urge - the similar one which compelled him to write for her - and when it came he was overjoyed.
He went to her, as she waited for a certain someone. She smiled as he sat by her, the whole time gazing into the distance. He took her beautiful hand and cried inside as he watched her slender fingers grasp the letter. Then his eyes ran over her features, wishing that he would be the one to touch them gently instead of the man she waited for. He left then, relieved that she had it in her hands.
He was happy as he lay on the bed in his dark room, prepared to take his last breath without regret. His carefully crafted piece - telling the story of his love as he would have should the gift of speech be endowed upon him - it was with her, and she would finally understand.
But she left it on the bench as her love came to meet her, as her eyes - beautiful as they were - could not see; for too many days.
----------------
// I have to stop writing these random, plot-less short pieces.. It's not good for me. ;;. Nonetheless, if anyone's asking about my incomplete piece, I will complete it. Just. give me time. I don't want to force myself to write something I have no inspiration for. ^^;; And as usual, I'm open to constructive criticism. //