She was an uncommon sound, and I...her only listener. The immense beauty that followed her like bread crumbs was more than a broken man like I could comprehend. Her movement was music, and how I loved that song. Always floating, always blowing; a spectral saxophone that knew only minor notes. How I loved to watch her dance, as if “watching” was ever accurate. “Studying” is how I viewed her, memorizing her kinesthetic instruction. I so wanted to hold her, like an instinctual desire. I wanted to own her, knowing full well that owning such an angel was never a possibility. You can hear laughter, yet you can never comprehend it. The same could be said for her.

5 months passed, and I had yet to occupy her shadow. Once a wallflower is planted, uprooting is a difficult process. In that time, it seemed that she never wasted a word; never used unnecessary breath. Everything she did and said seemed vital to the environment's survival. This sweet delusion had become elemental to me. I wanted to sip from her water, to warm myself by her fire. I longed to slumber in her bed of leaves, to be nourished by her sustenance.

I hate the word “obsession,” because it's used so flippantly. Why am I not allowed to be in love from afar? This is nothing but justification, however, because “obsessed” is exactly what I became. This was no fault of her's, however. My growing fascination with who she was...more importantly, “why” she was...was solely to blame. I had built up her glory in my mind to the point that an inadvertent glance from her in my direction brought a deep-seeded fear within me. “Insecurity” is where it is born, but “fear” is what it actually is. Fear that this flawless vision would find anything in common with my commonalities. Fear that the sweet smell of grace that wafted from her pores would mix with my putrid scent of overt sadness. I was content to wilt while she bloomed, as long as I could be a spectator to her majesty.

What finally tore me from my potted home was “time.” Our time in the same room grew short, and soon I knew I would never have the chance to see her face in these fluorescent lights again. The tension I felt was almost crippling, but my need for closure...that selfish desire we all carry...was palpable. I found myself moving in her direction, though I can't remember taking a step. Her image became larger and larger in my frame of vision, and I knew that the next words out of my mouth must be profound to measure up proportionally to her holiness. I knew she was a mere mortal, such as I, but her pureness and lovely demeanor put her on a level I could only hope to peer at through space. The eyes of my beloved found mine, and any coherent thoughts immediately fell to my feet. She was a dream I had dreamed thousands of times, but never in so much vivid color. The stillness of her gaze was matched only by the enormity of her presence. I knew, like I know I'm alive, that I had to speak to her now.....or never.

“You cause me to write, and because of that, I love you.”

That is what I said. It spilled out of my mouth like some kind of celestial body fluid.

No, “Hi.”

No, “I've always wanted to meet you.”

But, “You cause me to write, and because of that, I love you.”

If I had time to contemplate her next movements, I might have expected her to put on the mask of confusion at best; at worst, cruel laughter.

Instead, the mouth I had memorized turned up into a scorching smile. Her lips parted slightly, showing pearly teeth, slightly moist. That smile made her face, which I would have sworn was written by God, turn into intense light. I would have shielded my eyes, were my arms and hands not separated from my conscious self.

“What a perfect thing to say.”

Her response came in notes, and I fully expected it, word for word.

Though she did not return my statement of love, I felt loved nonetheless, and that is a tribute to her magic.

We spent the next hour speaking on things of the mundane, but they seemed miraculous in our conversation. Statements about music, art, and the blasphemous television were peppered through out the symphony of her voice. I know I spoke back, but to this day, cannot recall one thing I said, other than my initial greeting. I chose to be completely possessed by her in that moment. To be invaded and enslaved, though I know she would never have asked that of me.

Time ran short, as time often does, and our meeting followed suit. This is where the clarity of that afternoon comes back: I stood up, took her hand (which she freely gave), kissed it as gently as a man is allowed, and thanked her for her time.

“No need for thanks. I needed a real conversation.”

I absorbed her words, fighting an intense urge to completely lunge at her small frame and embrace her in a heroic kiss.

“I think I needed it, too,” is how I responded.

We parted, and it was finite. I never saw her again, but have thought of her daily. I went to my shanty (and a shanty it was) and wrote line after line of poems inspired and birthed by her graciousness. Often times, I wonder where she is, if she is in love, and other common thoughts. Never once, however, have I pondered whether or not she was being loved.

For creatures like her will always be loved.