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. 

But love can make a wise man foolish, not that I claim to have been wise, I am possibly just a fool made foolish for the right reasons, I hope. That is what this hinges on, hope. Then why do I feel so hopeless when I hope for love?
Despite that feeling I hold onto that hope because it is good and true, she might not be the woman I will love but for right now, I hope she is. Because her beauty, however I might exaggerate it, cannot be denied. And her peace, however nervous I might feel around her, cannot be forgotten. When my mind is distracted by other woman I am choosing to move past those thoughts, I am choosing the hope for love. So that one day I might tell her how I feel, yet the dread of rejection delays such pursuit. In this delay I fear I will lose my chance, for surely I am not the only one who notices her beauty.


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