Her eyes hold a secret, that I am sure of; I reach out, but by the time I reach, she’s already gone. I usually watch her from a distance, her smile much more beautiful than even the largest, most brilliant diamond, her onyx black hair sucking me in like a black hole, only to be brought up short by her golden brown skin. She looks like a roasted marshmallow, soft, crushable. Yes, these are all striking points, but her eyes are what shine the most – a mix of milk chocolate and caramel. She looks around, our eyes meeting; she stares at me, her eyes refusing to open their doors. How I wish to destroy those doors, though I could never, I mustn't . . . Should I? By the time I finish my thought she's gone; yet again she’s escaped. I truly love that about her, though I wish she would notice me, at least then would I need not to be so wary of her.

I can feel my heart race the next time I spot her; she's shopping, buying for two -- why? Is she with someone? Does she not realize that I'm all she needs? I calm myself down and follow after her, watching her head bob back and forth, her hips swaying side to side. A gentle wind blows, sending me a whiff of her strawberry scented hair. Strawberry? She usually wears kiwi. Still I can't get riled up, perhaps she has good intentions? She can't, she won't, I won't let her. She stops at an apartment, not hers; how did I not realize the path she took was different -- oh, why did she abandon me? I let my fury rise as I lunge after her, my hands are on her, her skin is soft but she's shaking, screaming. Her eyes are finally open, I’ve broken down the doors, but behind them is someone completely different -- where is she? “Where is she?” She screams loudly, grabbing my arms. I can hear doors rattling, I hear screams from neighbors, but I'll stay until I find her, this woman gasping as her hands release from my arm. Seconds later I’m free of her; she breathes calmly, her face returning to normal. She looks like me, her eyes watering, there. I can see I destroyed those doors, I flooded those doors with tears; my dear . . . is it me you fear?