My Herione

I cannot claim credit for this one, it was recently written by one of my friends. I liked it and thought I'd pass it on to you.

In stories, I read about the girls with eyes as blue as the deepest depths of the ocean, eyes that can ensnare a person as surely as a spider snares a fly. I read about girls with eyes of a melting brown, soft and tender enough to make the lion lay down with the lamb. I read of girls with eyes like the first growth of spring, as green as the buds that herald the new year. Yet the eyes I love are none of these vibrant shades. The eyes I love are an unassuming gray, unfathomable and aloof. They search me, scanning my face for a clue, a sign, a symbol of emotion. But I show nothing

In books, I read of women with hair like the feathers of a raven, blacker than night and softer than silk. I read of women with hair like fire, a beacon to all who pass by that this is an uneasy soul. I read of women with hair like gold, each strand precious enough to be coveted, hoarded away by the few lucky enough to possess one. Yet the hair I love is not one of these stark strands. The hair I love is a simple light brown, like the thinnest sliver of cinnamon when held up to the light. This invokes in me the desire for the sight, the scent of it drifting past my vision as our paths cross in the hallway. But I show nothing.

In legends, I read of princesses who sleep the sleep of love, waiting for a single man to come and awaken them. I read of princesses who wait at the peak of a tower, longing for the day when their prince comes to save them. I read of princesses who gladly give their lives and love to the one brave enough to rescue them. Yet the princess I love is no meek and bashful token, wanting only to be seen and thought of as beautiful. The princess I love is a fortress, a bastion of tranquility and a stronghold of peace. She holds her own council, then invites me to take part in her next adventure. But I show nothing.

She is not a fairy tale. She is not "Happily Ever After". She is not Snow White nor is she Sleeping Beauty. She is not perfect. She is only human and she cries her silent tears when no one else is watching. When all eyes are elsewhere, I look and see that she is not one of the illustrious "them". She is not a goddess. She is not Helen, not Athena, not Aphrodite. She is human. She speaks to me, knowing that I have felt what she feels, been where she's been, seen what she's seen. But I show nothing. I respond, but it's a joke, a meaningless phrase used only lightly, never in a meaningful way. Still, I show nothing. Yet, though I may deny it, she has taken me over like a drug in my veins. She is in my phantom, my icon. Still, I show nothing.

She has given me the opportunity, yet I failed to seize upon it. I do nothing. So she moves on, looking over her shoulder, asking with her eyes if I will join. I stare back, and stare, and stare as she moves on. And I do nothing.