It was the murmuring of hope. The silent anchor of joy and desire.
The way she walked, the way she moved, stuck like hooks and pulled.
She was the dream, the fantasy. The beguiling mystery of what could be, if only.
His mouth watered, the taste and hunger filling his blood, rushing.
She whispered and laughed, he swore she looked right at him.
Her independence and appeal, swirled like a heady aroma and he leaned in to fill himself with what could never be.
She, a passing fancy. A glimmer of what he would never know.
An old ghost, a hunger that could not be satiated.
He walked, heavy, beyond his years, away. Silent. Dreaming often, and lonely.
She flirted by, heavy eyes casting a glance at the handsome stranger. The lonely man with mystery, dark and dangerous. He seemed sad and she wanted to feel his head against her, the heat of his worry easing in the curve of her chest.
She whispered to her friend, "that man, there". "Like him do you?" "Like? He's like a dream." She threw her head back and laughed at her foolishness. A man like that wouldn't notice her. Couldn't see her longing for love. He hadn't glanced her way. She would have know, would have felt the weight of his gaze.
They passed on.
Silent and longing. Nothing but an empty wish to keep.
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