She read a piece of mine. A piece about love, a piece about passion, a piece about feeling whole, feeling complete.

“Who have you written it for?” She asked

“No one” nervously I said.

It was suspicious of course, it felt like I had been feeling all that about someone, it felt too pure to be solely imagined.

I couldn’t tell her it was for her. No. Not yet.

I looked into her eyes, she didn’t know, I could tell.

“This must be the most beautiful feeling ever?”

“Painful too I suppose.” I said

She was confused.

I looked into her eyes, she didn’t know, I could tell.

“Sure it’s painful” (sarcastically).

She looked into my eyes, deeply, searching for the pain.

“Is there anything more beautiful than feeling like this.”

“Knowing that you have made someone else feel that way, the fulfilment that there is someone out there who cares for you more than anything else in the world”

The softest purest gloom and despair took over her.

“Man if only for once, I could make someone feel like that.”

I looked into her eyes, she didn’t know, I could tell.