"But you're my muse."

There are evenings when I wonder 

whether Heaven has ever been cruel enough 

to place something so beautiful

before the eyes of someone

who has no idea what to do with beauty.

Then I remember you.

You, with your dark hair

falling like mourning silk across your face,

your glasses half-concealed beneath it,

your eyes carrying that peculiar weariness

which belongs to those who have spent

too much time alone with their thoughts.

I wonder what sorrows

have taught your eyes to look that way.

I wonder what thoughts visit you

when the corridors grow quiet,

when the voices of the day disappear,

when you are finally left alone

with yourself.

There is something almost tragic about how quietly you exist.

You never ask to be noticed.

You do not demand affection.

You simply walk beneath the ordinary lights

with your familiar bag upon your shoulder,

your dark clothes moving softly around you,

your silver rings catching the pale light

whenever your hands move

and somehow,

the entire world becomes more beautiful

for having contained you.

I have often thought

that love must announce itself.

That it must arrive like thunder,

like church bells at midnight,

like some grand revelation

that leaves a person forever changed.

But mine came quietly.

It came in the sight of your hands.

In the silver upon your fingers.

In the sound of your guitar

when you thought no one was listening.

It came in your silence.

Especially your silence.

For there are people who speak endlessly

and reveal nothing.

And then there are people like you,

who say almost nothing and somehow leave one wondering

about a thousand hidden worlds.

When you play,

I cannot help but listen.

The strings tremble beneath your fingers

and something within me trembles with them.

It is strange, is it not?

How music can become a confession without ever speaking a name.

Perhaps your guitar knows you better than I do.

Perhaps it has heard every thought

you were too afraid to give another human being.

Perhaps that is why I love listening.

Not because I understand every note,

but because for a few moments

you seem less distant.

And I would give much

for the privilege of knowing

what exists behind that distance.

Not to possess it.

Never that.

Only to understand.

Only to sit beside the mystery

without demanding that it explain itself.

I think that is what tenderness is…

to look upon another human being

and not ask them to become easier to love.

To see their quietness

and not punish them for it.

To see their weariness

and wish, helplessly,

that the world had been gentler with them.

And perhaps I am helpless.

What can I truly offer you?

A few words.

A few pages.

A heart that has become embarrassingly attentive

to the smallest details of your existence.

I know the silver rings.

I know the dark hair.

I know the tired eyes.

I know the guitar.

I know the bag you carry

through the halls as though it were

nothing more than another ordinary thing.

But to me,

these ordinary things have become sacred.

That is the ridiculous cruelty of affection.

It takes something insignificant

and teaches you to treasure it.

A strand of hair becomes unforgettable.

A passing glance becomes a memory.

A melody becomes a place

to which the heart returns

when it has nowhere else to go.

And you…

you have become that place for me.

Not because you promised me anything.

Not because you asked to be admired.

But simply because, somehow,

my heart looked toward you

and decided to remain there.

Perhaps you will never know.

Perhaps these words will always belong

to the secret chamber of my heart

where all the most delicate things are kept.

And perhaps that is fitting.

For some feelings become less beautiful

the moment they are spoken aloud.

So I shall keep this one carefully.

Like a letter never sent.

Like a pressed flower

between the pages of an old book.

Like a song remembered

long after the musician has gone.

I will keep the thought of you

without asking it to become anything more.

And if someday you wonder

why someone looked at you

as though you were something precious,

Perhaps it was simply because

you were.

You were the quiet miracle

hidden inside an ordinary afternoon.

You were the melancholy melody

I did not know I had been waiting to hear.

perhaps.. 

You were the dark-haired boy

with tired eyes and silver rings

who never realized

that his existence alone

could make someone write.

And if I must call this feeling by a name,

then let me call it devotion.

Not the kind that demands.

Not the kind that chains.

But the kind that quietly says:

I see you.

I remember you.

I hope the world is kind to you.

And if it is not…

then somewhere, at least,

there will always be someone

who remembers that you were here.

Someone who heard your music.

Someone who noticed your hands.

Someone who saw the sadness in your eyes

and thought it beautiful,

not because sorrow itself is beautiful,

but because you continued to carry it

and still made music.

Perhaps that is why

I cannot call you merely beautiful.

Beauty is too small a word.

You are a thought that refuses to end.

A melody that refuses to fade.

A page that asks to be written upon

again and again,

though I know the story can never truly belong to me.

And so I write.

Not because I expect you to read this.

Not because I expect you to understand.

I write because sometimes the heart

must place its tenderness somewhere

before it becomes too heavy to carry.

And mine has placed it here..

among these words,

among these pages,

among the quiet hours of the evening,

where I can finally admit

what I have been too timid to say.

You are not mine.

You never were.

And perhaps you never will be.

But the poetry you awakened in me,

that belongs to me.

The songs I hear when I think of you,

those belong to me.

The little constellation of memories

you have unknowingly left behind;

those belong to me.

And the strange, gentle ache

of having found someone

whose existence makes the world

seem briefly worth loving…

that, too, is mine.

So let the poets write of roses.

Let them praise the moon

and kneel before the stars.

Let them fill their pages

with impossible women and perfect heroes.

I have no need for such things.

I have seen you.

And somehow,

That was enough.

For when I search for beauty,

I found your silhouette.

When I search for music,

I hear your guitar.

When I search for something

worthy of being remembered,

I remember you.

And when my heart asks me

why I write,

I finally know the answer.

Not because you are perfect.

Not because you belong to me.

Not because you ever promised

to become the subject of my poems.

But because you exist.

And, for reasons I shall probably spend

the rest of my life failing to understand,

that existence became poetry.

So let the final words remain simple.

Let them stand without ornament,

without metaphor,

without the protection of beautiful language.

For after all these verses,

all these pages,

all this foolish tenderness,

there is only one truth

I have been trying to confess:

You are not mine to have.

But you’re my muse.

I wrote this poem about this specific 'boy' that I found myself liking, but it's so silly that having to write such things like this for some boy who barely knows me. However, I suppose that's one of the downsides of having a crush.