Sillhouette

He is unaware of your gaze.
So quietly he sits,
listening idley to the conversation
That you wonder if he is
attatched at all.
He ponders this himself,
Amused by
the dance of a speck of dust
Flitting its way across a
blemished table.
That mid of his is wandering back
To
a favourite topic,
You.
And as he writes
this,
He tries so hard to cry
But
fails,
Miserably so
Even though a week has to
pass,
Seeming like a decade,
Until next he spies your
face
His love's face
Your face.