There is a certain feeling (euphoria perhaps?) that overwhelms me in your presence. Long have I watched, never speaking, only listening. Perchance you've noticed? No. No, that would be asking too much. Verily, mine is the lot of the sad and quiet. One day, however, one day I shall rise and all shall know my name. Then, perhaps, you shall deign to notice me. When I am chief among your suitors, will you glance my way? When the world is mine and all are mine for the taking, would you give yourself to me? No. No, and that is why my desire has grown and grown. Your contempt would no more be mitigated by wealth or status than by the weather or daily news. You cast not a glance towards Yours Truly, not because I am beneath you, but because you are honestly disinterested, and this horrid honesty is what makes you so reassuringly attractive. It may be that I have said too much now, perhaps these things are better left unspoken (they oft are) but I'm afraid that I am neither able nor willing to maintain plaintive silence any longer, silently lusting whilst you flit to and fro 'neath my gaze.
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