Writing Snapshots

unconfessed love

Dear Crush,

When I first saw you, my heart did these weird little floppity flops and it was something that hadn't happened to me before. For a moment, I thought my heart was collapsing, that breath would no longer fill my lungs, that I would no longer be living.

But when those flops turned into a hurricane of butterflies that travelled through my body and fluttered against my skin, it was not death I was experiencing, but love.

Whenever I would look at you, my skin would come alive with goose bumps and I would shiver. Who could forget that smile, oh that damned smile with dimples like little curved suns on your face, that mouth pulled into a grin that could melt a girl's heart frozen by life.

That is exactly what you did. I was the candle, you were the flame and I was slowly melting into a pool of wax cemented with love.

But maybe I was never the candle, but the moth, drawn to you though I never should have been. I kept coming back though, hovering and haunting you. You said my name in that voice that was like honey, sweet and syrupy, but when you eat too much honey it's poison and I got poisoned with you, with your words.

And once, our hands touched and you immediately recoiled, while I lay drowning in those emotions that flooded me. It was a spark to my match and that turned into fireworks. Fireworks that lit up my world, but also exploded it, made a bang and disappeared.

If I could confess my love, I would, but how everything bars us apart. I feel like Portia to thy Bassanio, a woman in love without being able to confess. Would these words ever part these lips, would you ever be mine?

If could tell thee, I would. Then maybe the hands that touched will be linked, my name something you savor on your tongue than it being some methodical way to call me. Maybe this moth will become a butterfly, no longer searching for light because it has emerged from its cocoon and already grown its wings. Already seen the light that it for so long searched for.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps our, or my love is meant to be something that is hushed, nursed in my heart. But what is nursed always grows and the seed now will be a tree, a grove. Then, when the fruits are all ripened, would you look at me? Would you look at me twice and say I love you too?

Love,

Manasha

A/N: This was my entry for the TATBILB contest before I realized I wasn't eligible. But I thought I would post it anyhow. This is the most poetic piece I have EVER written, so please comment your thoughts!