I Hate His Beauty

I look at him and thought : beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. It is too easy to love him. It is not fair and I wish it would be that easy for me too.

I try to have a conversation with him but all I can think about is he is beautiful. What must it be like to grow up that beautiful? I say it over and over again in my head. I hope that if i say it too much it won’t mean so much to me.

Yet I hate like his beauty. I hate knowing my face is in a red flush when he comes near. I hate that the only nice thing he has done to me is allowing myself to sit in front of him. I hate that I enjoy every bits of second, unable to define the joy I feel, as his eyes, words, and hands are somehow gleaming and twinkling and I, again, find my eyes sinking into his beauty. I hate that the mundane in his sentences are insanely pretty. I hate that I find myself mourning about his love that I will never neither touch with my own hands nor speak out loud.

I despise him. Yet when I look up, I see the gold rush of tomorrow.

I could’ve been him. No, I could’ve loved him. If only I don’t hate him so much. If only I wouldn’t die to feel his touch. If only I didn’t crave him as much as I feel like I don’t need anything else. If only I didn’t find myself writing these words no one will ever read.

So : Today I hate him. Today I wait for his call.