You Are Untouchable

I know you didn't notice what I was doing when your elbow was perched on the back of my chair as you chatted with a friend so I rest assured that my words will be safely undiscovered here. You suspect nothing. You expect nothing. You know nothing. And I am perfectly fine with that.

I kept my eyes soft and unfocused so no one could see that I was carefully tracing the outline of your sleeve that made a sharp "v" down the side of your torso, gently inclining into the long expanse of one pants leg--dark jean, by the way. I inhaled. You didn't have much of a scent: traces of deodorant, soap, and perhaps a hint of cigarette smoke. Not exactly a seductive, compelling aroma.

Meanwhile, I processed this assessment in all of two seconds, and just as quickly you glided away from my line of vision, off to charm someone else with your unaffected grace and nonchalant confidence. Combined with your private, cat-like smile, I'm surprised admirers aren't throwing themselves at your glorious feet, fawning and swooning all the while. Do I sound bitter? My apologies.

You belong to no one and to everyone. And yet, not anyone can simply have you. Sweet words slip out easily from your poet lips as the walled defenses shielding your true self rise ever higher and harden even more. I wonder if you have any time to care for someone special when you go around dispensing your almost-love to people who all want to be your one and only. But no--you're far too selfless and giving to even consider monogamy, aren't you? You minstrel. You troubadour.

For the most part I am content to quietly watch you from afar, my chin propped up on my hands, but sometimes I wish--just once--it is me you are turning towards for a chat as your elbow sits on the back of someone else's chair.