I haven’t been this caught in a while. There’s just something about him that piques my interest. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s tall and fit—or the way he dresses—or maybe it’s how his face seems a form I’ve only dreamed of—or, perhaps, it’s the depth of his eyes—I could stare into them until the end of time.

Maybe it’s the fact that his voice hits the very note that, upon striking, at once makes my heart turn to liquid gold—or maybe it’s the things he says—sweet utterances I could replay in my head over and over until my knees feel weak and my mind feels faint.

Perhaps it’s the little encounters—the laundry-day encounters where we exchange small-talk. It’s those moments that I lose my tongue and I start feeling flustered—my heart beats like the pounding iron that runs through it—runs through my soul and leaves me weightlessly drifting in Nirvana.

Maybe it’s how elusive he is. Maybe it’s because every moment I can even gaze upon his form, stare at his hands while he speaks, is like opium to the cold—I’d breathe it—oh, if I’d only reason to be with him!—an ounce of personality, a decent appearance, talent—I’d give anything to show him who I am.