I. When She Notices You
It starts with a shimmer,
a glance gone astray,
a sparkle that tiptoes
across your whole day.
A woman takes notice—
the air seems to spin…
and that, dear wanderer,
is where troubles begin.
For trouble wears perfume
of moonlit allure,
with laughter that promises
nothing secure.
She drifts like a melody
strange yet well-known—
a waltz you were never
meant dancing alone.
She beckons with mischief,
with charm dipped in wine,
with riddles in ringlets
and smiles serpentine.
And suddenly gravity
tilts on its tune—
you’re caught in the pull
of your own rising moon.
Your heart starts composing
its bold serenades,
your thoughts go haywire
in shimmering grades.
You swear you’ll stay clever,
you plan to stay sane…
yet whimsy takes over
and logic turns vain.
For “man’s ruin” isn’t
a curse carved in stone—
it’s simply the magic
of losing your own.
When she shows an interest,
you’re swept in the spin—
a marvelous mayhem
where troubles begin…
But oh, what a chaos
to gladly be in.
II. The Contest of the Unnoticed
It always begins with a flutter of fans,
a whisper of perfume, a rustle of plans—
for one woman’s interest is trouble enough,
but several at once? Oh, that’s serious stuff.
They spot you existing—
just breathing, that’s all—
no posing, no preening,
just minding your call.
And somehow your silence,
your calm, your “meh, who?”
becomes the very spark
that ignites their whole coup.
The first tries a smile
that could warm northern snows,
the second adjusts
what the first never shows,
the third, in a flourish,
pretends not to care…
while absolutely caring
with all of her flair.
They circle like comets
around your still sun,
each plotting a moment
to out-charm the one.
They laugh just a little
too bright, too aware—
a musical duel
waged in shimmering air.
And you, quite unbothered,
just walk with your stride,
your thoughts on your goals
or your peace deep inside.
You’ve better things brewing,
more meaningful schemes—
their dances and glances
don’t enter your dreams.
But this—oh, this!—
is the charm of the scene:
your total indifference
makes you ever more keen.
For nothing’s so tempting,
so sweetly insane,
as someone immune
to their whole grand campaign.
So onward they escalate—
step, flourish, and spin…
a whimsical war
where none means to win.
While you stay detached,
half lost in your mind—
which somehow, to them,
is the rarest of kind.
And though you don’t notice
their shimmering art,
they’re drawn even deeper
to your quiet-heart spark.
For some are sought after,
but you—without trying—
are chased by a chorus
of whims multiplying.
And trouble, delightful,
begins once again…
when you don’t even see
what you effortlessly pen.
III. The Chorus of the Unseen
We see him—
calm as starlight,
walking past our painted storms,
his eyes fixed on some quiet dream
we cannot name
but desperately wish to join.
And suddenly we
become performers
in a play he doesn’t watch.
“Did he glance at you?”
whispers one,
fluffing her hair like a bright banner.
“No, but he heard my laugh,”
claims another,
tuning her voice like a silver harp.
A third just smirks,
adjusts her dress,
and steps lightly
as though the floor itself
should applaud.
We orbit him—
three moons waging tidal wars,
each trying to pull
his attention
one inch, one breath,
one heartbeat closer.
But he strolls on,
thoughtful and distant,
as if his mind is a constellation
we cannot reach.
Oh, how maddening—
and how magnetic.
We try subtlety first—
a glance, a glow,
a brush of perfume in his path.
He misses all of it
like a monk avoiding temptation
out of sheer habit.
So we heighten our charms,
unfurling ourselves
like competing blossoms:
one offers wit like a sword,
another warmth like a hearth,
another mystery like a dusk-tide riddle.
Still—
nothing.
His indifference
is its own kind of gravity,
pulling us in
even as he drifts
further away.
And there, in that space
between our bravado
and his oblivion,
we share a secret truth:
We don’t want just his eyes—
we want his wonder.
We want to be the thing
that interrupts his inner world,
the spark that detours
those distant thoughts.
So we keep competing,
laughing, dancing,
shining a little brighter,
because somehow
his absence of noticing
makes him feel
impossibly rare.
And we, in turn,
become ardent constellations—
each of us
hoping to be the star
he finally decides
to name.