Bittersweet

There is great shame in these words.

But God, is it hard when her eyes make me melt? Her hazel eyes--I can't seem to look at them for more than a second-- because I find myself drowning in the soothing brown, gasping for air, fumbling, falling, tugging on the different words that I want to say to her as she walks by, and all I can seem to get out is a smile.

The smell of her perfume as she walks by disrupts the drowning, and suddenly I'm in a tornado, swirling in the glorious smell uncontrollably, my thoughts destroying me as I bathe in the aroma of such a wonderful being.

And I know that she's staring now; I can feel it, and I'm just there, smiling. And I know she's smiling. And I'm just left there with these fucking feelings, and the words won't come out because we both know that it could never happen.

So I'm just left there, swirling, smiling, drowning in the aroma, in her eyes, in my mind, stressing, caressing, undressing, dying in my mind to say the million things that we both know we mutually feel. And I'm just left there with these fucking feelings, these thoughts-—the kissing, the sex, and the texting, the lies, the secrets, the infidelity, and the pleasure...

And what is a man supposed to do when he's so utterly attracted to such an unattainable woman in all the wrong ways all the fucking time? It's bittersweet to ever think that we could ever be a thing-- you and me. And while that case may be, if it were up to me, we could do the things we think. 

Bittersweet.