By the man who has had painted her picture in his heart, keenly brushing with strokes of passion, love, indifference, hate, anger and senile pleads. And she, lost in the hues of her own unanswered questions, whirls her eyes, silently hoping constancy prevails.
She is not the girl that men gape at in awe.
She is the girl men fall in love with.
With the diffusing smiles, hidden beneath scars of misunderstood words, uttered and broken.
With the eyes losing themselves in a disarray of innocence, charm and maturity.
She moves with the grace of a cockerel on the go. Oh no, she's a charming little thing alright, with the assumed walk of a ballet dancer gone wrong. With the necessary drama that would put Liz Taylor to shame. And a cupboard that cannot wait to get rid of its bearings. With a colloquial twang that incites squeals of laughter from none but her own self. And a stubborn want to be proven right, aptly supported by the gadget she oh so fiercely guards.
But then, beyond the pleasant smiles and the friendly overbearing lies a mystic pathway to the hurdle of questions left unspecified and unattended. Of the numerous emotions felt and the hours spent in tending to what now seems like a gamut of tears shed. From the very same eyes, that has hath infused the pleasure of life and love in many.
"But then, for once,
questions unanswered shall be aptly ignored,
and the growing wait,
shall be nursed,
with an array of words,
and touches galore.
And glances shall be stolen,
amidst the strangers present.
The questions shall come back,
but the love will only grow. "
And she will smile, as her name resonates hope, and her eyes gleam love.
P. S. Shettyman. :*