I see her every day. I know it's a cliché, but it really is so close yet so far. Every day I see her smile, hear her laugh, smell the foreign fragrances of her hair. Always next to me. Within reach. I'd lie if I said the temptation wasn't there; there was no end to it. There was just something about her that made her special, made her seem beyond reach. I knew I never had a chance, but I thrived off it.
The torturous part of it was my relationship to her; I was her confidante. She told me everything, every grimy detail that happened. She came to me for comfort when her dog died, she looked to me for praise when she got a job... she asks for advice on love.
Life's little ironies. At lunchtimes I watch her lust, think of what she's thinking about, muse at her yearnings, and punish myself for my thoughts. After lunch I hear about it all over again, her thirst for the object of her affectations, the need to fill that void in her life, the void shaped remarkably unlike me. She said she loved me, but as a friend, almost jokingly, not realising the repercussions of such a move, the quiver it causes in my stomach. It makes me think of her as I approach sleep, sometimes to dream of her...
But not sexually. She's beyond that. Her face is merely a symbol for her true beauty. Yet I still need her in the same way that an artist needs canvas; she is my means of expression and without her I feel empty, deflated.
When I'm down, she knows and she revives me. When I want to be alone, she persists, probing the problem but never finding the truth. Whenever something's wrong, she tells me and is comforted, but she can never know.
They can never know.
Nothing's ever really that simple though. The usual boy meets girl story never comes true. Nothing escapes complexity. After all the listening and waiting I know the only thing that could possibly emerge is more listening and waiting. I hope in my heart that she could know, realise, understand. But I know in my mind it should never happen. She's above the likes of me. I'll never be worthy.