“I may seem nonchalant what with my gaze turned down; both arms crossed behind my back; my toes tracing orbits on the ground.
But I’m obsessively compulsively in love with you.”
“Is that so?” said he, with a smirk.
“I love you. Please. Be my valentine?” I hold out a bouquet of hand-picked roses in fiery red, sunset orange, mellow yellow, peach pink and plum purple. He only notices my pierced hands, crimson blood commencing from the thorns.
With a discerned look he dislodges each finger from each thorn; each thorn from each finger.
I was desperate for an answer but I daren’t ask again, let alone breathe.
He deduces the obvious fact that she’s head over heals in love with him by her longing gaze that always seems to linger from his hairline to his cold emerald irises to his ski-slope nose to his thin lips.
“I’m afraid not.” Answers he,
“I would be betraying myself
if I told you I love you the same.”