Look

He looked at me the way he looks at her.

His eyes soft and downcast, a certain sadness tinging the corners; he was a man taking in the last glass of water he knew he'd never get.

my head tilted . tines untangling the coils of pink and green . neck bent . an attractively unnatural angle

My eyes locked with his, I don't think he saw me. All others in the room were forgotten in the background.

He wore the same expression as when he followed her with his gaze across a room, instead following my fingers guiding the brush through my hair.

I pretended not to notice, gave him what little dignity he had left.

closed my eyes . kept talking . kept brushing . a mockery of decorum

I know he saw me. He knows I saw him. But still he looked.

I looked up once more, testing my memory. Perhaps the conjuring of a vain imagination?

His eyes still there. Did he not care if I noticed?


His stare was too focused, too aware. He was not lost in though, he was conscious of every detail he took in.

pause in my strokes . sudden blush . babbling random conversation . attempt at distraction

The smalls hairs on the back of my neck prickled with the invading caresses his eyes raked over my form.

My hair now in order, I straighten and drop my brush. I pick up the conversation, forcing him to participate.

The moment is broken. He returns to himself, joking and deflecting. He does not acknowledge and neither do I.

His actions seem forced and overly-secure. I know his pain. He is alone and wanting and it hurts.

I know this because I look at him the way he looks at her.