Within the glass jar of his identity
There lie three straws,
Interpretations,
Guesses drawn from assumptions–
All of them possible.

Straw 1: That of indifference
To the way he is subtly glanced at
Unaware of his presence being noticed so keenly
That she looks away fiercely,
Daring not to even look at him
Only to find out he isn’t looking at her
When she hopes above all odds he is.
Blithely ignorant, he goes on his way
Free of all the clamorous tumult in her brain.

Straw 2: That of insurmountable shyness
Binding his throat when he thinks to speak,
Blurring the words he plans to utter.
As he nears her,
He tries to focus to slip into a chance
But when the moment comes
His mouth is dry, his hands clammy
So he averts his eyes in wordless defeat,
Ashamed of failing her expectations he himself raised–
Only by mail is he free to flirt
Heart thudding
Hands still clammy, mouth still dry
But courageous enough to push “send”.

Straw 3, the worst of all:
That of indifference to her.
Rising from his seat, he strolls
Nonchalantly to the place she sits
Because beyond it is his true destination.
He notes with some satisfaction her fidgeting
But only out of male pride of a conquest;
When he replies to her quick messages
He is merely being polite.
Like a man, sure of what he wants
He has already tired of her;
Silent and aloof, he thrills at piquing her
But that is all he intends to do.

Oh, poor foolish woman
Reduced to observing and deciphering clues
She will never understand his true motives
Unless she dares to ask directly
And that she will never deign to do
For she too has her insecurities
And she too has her pride.