He walked past me again, and everything, just how it always does, stopped.
My eyes stayed there, gazing at him. Like he is a work of art. A masterpiece. A star.
The twinkle of his almond-shaped eyes, the way he brushes his dark brown hair with his fingers and the way his lips part a little – they all set my heart in flames.
But his flames burn me, ironically because I cannot touch them. I cannot touch him. He burns far away, but all of me is damaged, ruined. But I’m staying.
Even with my skin burnt in third degree, I will still stay – waiting and gazing and wanting and hurting while watching his flames burn so bright and beautiful.