Imagine him. That person you would want to look at you.
He would see your everyday smile- that one you wear when you look at flowers or when you look out of a cafe window as you sip your tea absently- and its like seeing the sun shine around you.
You're peering over at a scented candle stand, sniffing and telling him that there should be a candle scent for donuts, brownies, and breakfast tea and your fingers brush as you hand him the jar you're thinking of buying- and you don't know it but the tips of his fingers are tingling and he's looking at you with round eyes as he bites down his cheek while you're chattering on about lighters and wax and looking elsewhere.
He's looking at you; softly struck.
His heart is like a clàrsach. You don't even try and your fingers somehow reach out and tug and pull at the strings- it's like magic. Heavy and tingly then heaving.
You're not even looking. You're fixing your ruffled clothes before you turn around and ask him to look and see if your mascara is smudged. And you're too close and he stares for too long and his blood reaches his face but he's pretending that he's not in love with you.
And when you huff and turn your head, he looks away for a minute, then two then three and he's aiming for five but slowly his eyes find you and his face is solemn as all he does is gaze. A little sadly. A little painfully. But the clàrsach hasn't stopped even if each note aches a little.
