You are the mystery that beckons me. In unraveling you these moments I seem to find myself spent in. Your vague manner -elusive as it may be- sometimes speaks of an interest, only to quicken in haste and cover it up. This leaves me wondering (yet again) whether it was all in my head. Why won't you speak out, reach out, and linger. How somewhere deep inside my all wishes for you to do so! Linger, that is...
Why must my pang remain mine alone, leaving me wreathing in thoughts not returned (for now), in fear of being not returned for always. Will you become another page unturned because that is where the book of you was meant to end?
I ponder, I flounder
I wonder, I wait.