Is my love there or not?

pexels-photo-377909There have been more instances than I can ever recall when I wanted you- a hot guy with a bushy beard, and brawny muscles. I would check your Facebook many times in a day just to check if you’re updating or to see u again.
There you are, in your tee flaunting your biceps and abs. Your lifestyle quite different from mine as seems from the Facebook has intrigued me beyond the limits. You’re a frequent traveler to places- with friends or alone. Traveling is your love. You have your friends and your gym with you, a girlfriend- I don’t know. I imagined it would be me. I wanted to be it.
But why do I want it?
Am I too insecure of myself? To not understand a simple saying-“All that glitters is not gold” or too stupid or immature to be fascinated by just one facade of you- your body.
Isn’t there much more of you than your body? Beyond your complexion, blue eyes, lips, bicep, six packs; I’m sure there must be your behavior, nature, temper, kindness,  self-esteem or good manners. 



Being unaware of all these, I still wanted to be your friend, honestly,  more than that.
Why? Because I loved the way you appeared but never could I assume the way you would look at me, in my eyes. Because you have never looked at me ever even when I cross the street in front of your eyes every day. You seem to ignore my existence each time. That’s fine because you don’t know me. You don’t know if I’m there or not, glancing at you or not.
But is my love there or not? Is it an arousing curiosity or plain lust or a truthful love? If ever I get you, would I be able to proudly say that I have loved you from quite some time?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s