I was a turbulent mess of a human,
floating in the aether
of emotionless glances
and second-hand compliments.
I would never speak of my feelings
because there was simply nothing to speak of,
neither speck nor mote.

Of course, as Hollywood films mirror real life,
I caught a double-take when you
casually wandered into my field of vision.
My heart was truly struck;
cupids arrow, if cliché serves me well.
There was something in your movements, however,
that seemed to remind me
of a bird failing to avoid a thunderstorm.

My emotional renaissance was not
to be perturbed however.
My masterpiece, my magnum opus,
right here, dangling in front of me.
If a paintbrush could have created such a prize,
I would surely throw it away,
from that moment on
completely useless as a tool,
never accomplishing anything greater.

You had been crying about something,
something miserable but human.
Then, before courage could grab me by my shoulders
and push me in your general direction,
you escaped my gaze for a flitting moment
and you were gone,
lost in the confusion of a thousand strangers.

Whenever I think of you,
you always seem to be crying.
I can never envision your happy face.
I hope you do smile, though,
I really do, even but occasionally.

Eventually, I wish,
you could found the dawning
of your own emotional renaissance
and I hope you will let me be there,
lauding each and every one of your brush-strokes.