Why do I still feel so strongly attached to this imaginary lady? My sensual affiliation seems so non-existent when she avails herself. This mystery maiden doesn’t complain about my messed up hair, neither does she keep silent for days without calling me. She makes her presence so obvious when I’m alone and utterly morose by the stinking stillness of my life. I face this menace ever so often when my queen decides to temporarily forfeit her sovereignty and take her throne for granted.
Indignation is my daily bread, especially when I sulk so much at the inability to check on her supposed king. Although many damsels have traversed my path, my devotion remains solely imposed on my affection towards her. It almost feels like I have fallen face down, bursting my eye-balls out with no chance of seeing any other forever.
She lethargically steps up the ladder of maturity, feeling very comfortable where she currently resides: under the tutelage of dear daddy. Taking both weekly wages and instruction from him, the rules of engagement don’t matter as much as her trips to the hair parlour. Can I really blame anyone? After all, it was my choice to sentence myself to this rigmarole called courtship. Although, the clarion call for patience relents at the forefront of counsel received, I honestly prefer that virtue being left behind the long stream of thoughts running through my mind.
Every second without her stretches towards infinity, maybe because I still recount the softness of her royal regalia as I unfolded the hidden: that unseen beauty well concealed on the count of chastity and purity. This false reality continues to engrave itself on the mind of the other man, that image in the mirror fixated before me. He makes mockery of my seductive ineptitude, which fails to translate this young woman to that white polyester platform popularly known as sheets.
Waiting for that dastardly day, just wish it would be March or May...