I see her through a lens no one else can. To me, she's more than just the way she talks, walks, or smiles. She is the one who lingers in my thoughts, the one I write about, the one who makes me feel alive in a way no one else does.
There's something magical about the way she looks at me—her small smiles carrying a world of meaning. It's not just a gesture; it's a moment, a connection that feels like it's meant only for me. In those fleeting seconds, the whole world fades away, leaving only her gaze and the quiet comfort it brings.
Her smile isn't loud or overwhelming; it's soft, almost shy, but that's what makes it special. It feels genuine, as though she's sharing a part of herself she doesn't show to everyone. Those smiles remind me of all the reasons I'm drawn to her—not just her beauty, but the warmth and kindness that seem to shine through in those tiny moments.
When she looks at me that way, I feel seen. Not just noticed, but truly seen, as if she understands something about me without needing to say a word. It's in those smiles that I find hope, reassurance, and a quiet kind of joy that stays with me long after the moment has passed.
In her eyes, I see the dawn,
A gentle glow when night is gone.
A silent world, both calm and deep,
A place where all my dreams do sleep.
With every glance, a story flows,
A quiet love that no one knows.
No words are needed, none suffice,
For in her eyes, I find my life.
But sometimes, as I stand there in her light, a shadow creeps in—the shadow of doubt. What if the world she shares with me in fleeting smiles and quiet gazes is not the world she dreams of? What if I am a chapter in her story but not the one she holds closest to her heart?
These thoughts pull me into a strange place, a mix of yearning and resignation. For her, I would give everything, even if it means being only a passing moment in her life. If she is the ink that stains my heart, I'll gladly let her write her story upon me, even if I fade into the margins of her tale.
Some stories are written in books; others, like mine, are written in the silence of longing.