The Way He Looks At Me

Ilya Mazurkevich
Ilya Mazurkevich

Over the smell of coffee
and the lingering coldness,
he flashed his eyes like highway signs.
I need the touch of his lips,
against my cold neck.

After a few cheap lines,
we just stare at each other.
And there, there I know.
The way he looks at me,
it’s surreal; indescribable.
And there he was,
and he was-and remains-perfect.

Overlooking the city,
all the beauty
I can see now,
the best isn’t the view.
It’s him.
It’s his presence,
his compassionate soul.
His warmhearted smile.
His lovable talks.
His “at-home” laugh.
Everything about him,
magnetic.

Perhaps I’m overreacting,
but today was special.
It’s the first time I feel this way.
Obsession takes control
and no longer I am myself.
I am no one;
I’m a reflection of what I used to be,
and yet he sees me.

With him,
I am who I want to be,
the cliché of a hopeless romantic,
slowly burning pages with his writing,
hoping that
someday
I will complete him
the way he is completing me.

But the story that started here,
ended here.

Cold nights and dim screens,
burnt cigarettes and broken dreams.
Every corner screaming out his name,
every place we touched,
haunted by his artistry.
Coming at me in flashes,
torturing me of what could have been.
Coming back to haunt me,
please come back and love me.

Like a drug, he was,
slowly destroying me.
Burning my cold heart.
Leaving me in the middle,
caught between the cries
stuck in the secrets and lies.

Eyes wide open, sleepless nights.
Among the city that I fell in love
and lost myself in him, and his eyes.
Does he feel the same?
Can’t he sleep at night?
Does he feel as if everything we touched
was holy, perfect, just like him?

Yes, I might be drunk,
and he’s beautiful,
and when I’m sober
he will still be beautiful.

I’m not the same now,
knowing that
he will find someone
who will look at him the way I did.
And he will flash his eyes.
And he will make him fall in love.
I will never forget him.
And I will never,
never forget
the way he looked at me.

He might not be with me anymore,
but he will always have a piece of me,
laid upon the pages you’re reading now. TC mark

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