Through the crowd of hundreds, as the lights blinked and the music pounded, my ears were deaf but my eyes were searching, searching for his face.
He had these wrinkles as an old man does, whenever he smiles it shows and the whole world pauses, my. world. pauses, and I lose my head, I felt possessed.
As he smiled his dimples showed, as deep as an endless hollow, but he showed no shallow of emotions nor sorrow.
When he’s serious, I couldn’t figure whether he’s mad or not eager, there’s nothing to point with my finger, nothing to do even for a painter. As I turned my head I hoped to see, his face that made me unsteady, but as I turned there was nothing to see, nothing but him next to some lady.
It’s weird but I imagined him, looking at me as the lights dance on him, and all the lights were dim and a spotlight shines on him, but I was there looking at him, watching her beside him.
But I only know his face so much, and there was nothing I could do but, but to stand and watch, ‘cause I only know his face so much, but I don’t know know him that much.
-END, end of collection-
This is one of the poems in my His Collection, a collection of poems for the boy I used to like. This ends the collection because it’s the last poem I wrote for him before losing feelings for him.