It’s a routine.

Every afternoon, five o’clock.

I wait for her to walk outside the window.
I sit patiently, waiting with a cup of love in abudance and my admiration in secrecy.

And there she is, walking down the street. Mesmerizing.
The twinkle that blinks from the thin layers of lipstick on her lip.

The scent of her perfume, floating from her long thick hair when the wind blows and oozing trough the window. So sweet and soft.

And I’m drowning, in the blue depth of her eyes.

And I want to hear her breathing.
And I’m in love.
In sadness.
In despair. In need.
In lust.
In shame.

A secret admirer. A fool.

And when her shadow vanish around the corner. I sigh.

She’s a slow motion that ends too fast.

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