Prose about Her
She is a beautiful woman, my mind is taken by her. But this is not the first time I have fallen to fancy. I tend to exaggerate in a longing for romance; yes, I could list many superlatives about her. But what would that say? Really, nothing might happen. She might love someone else. I might love someone else. Then this desire to potray her, as one who is ideal, so as to be poetic, is hopeless. I know I want a lasting love; one that stands strong beyond infatuation, beyond those early days when the heart is a flutter and fancy cannot be helped. Yet I am caught and drawn to that stage by memories of her filtered by my hopes into some crystalized dream. So that now I fear that I have lost the reality of her; can she really be so lovely? Her gracefulness, her peace, her tender smile and gentle voice; am I dreaming these things? Am I just a fool? I think so.