What is one but an empty shell whom you haven’t taken notice.
As he stands, wavering in his insecurities, you mock him, unknowingly.
How can he but admire from afar, knowing you suppress any interest even on a mutual level?
That astral projection of yours, that others refer to as a smile, melts the iron bars of his foundation, yet you flail it around as if you don’t understand the danger of its magnificence, like some child running with scissors.
He’s fully aware he mustn’t instill such trivial thoughts for you, but with time serving as a catalyst for this nonstop reaction, it merely grows with no end, bound only by the reaches of the universe itself.
Even after your ignorance has been quenched, and you know of the sheer magnitude of your own causations, your stagnation doesn’t cease to exist.
If anything, his presence is seen as a tribulation, some stray dog you’ve fed too much, merely returning to your front door as if you weren’t going to disregard it.
You’re interest lies without the stereotype; an unfathomable hunger for something outside the boundaries of the common man, for generality is one you take no liking for.
He is but a Swallow to you, void of all individualism amuck the hubbub of his brethren, no identity for himself; unworthy of your attention.
The burly and grotesque are of your kin, and he in no way can morph himself into the being which you’ve hoped for.
How pedestrian for one to think that they could possibly entrance a peerless soul, when nothing is offered in return but his own selfish thoughts, his cravings; not unalike the Vulture mocking Death, begging it to head in its direction and lay waste upon its target.
His esteem boils lower, only sustained by casual acquaintances who know not the conundrums he must overcome, for the path he chose is barren, desolate, deprived of sentients of all kinds, dead or alive.
Yet he traverses this path with whatever dignity he could possibly muster,
With only faith in what could be to grasp his mind around.
And through this suffering, you but turn away, stifled by your own selfish deeds, even though he has already slain your ignorance.
You heed no importance, no remorse or sympathy.
He loathes you with a heat more putrid than the core of the sun itself.
It fazes you not; however, as you so easily cast a friendly glare and send the hatred fleeing as demons introduced to Heaven’s light back to the pits of Hell whence they came.
And he is left, null of all awareness, to succumb to your wishes, albeit leading nowhere closer to a combined future.
He takes refuge in his yearning, for in his own mind, that is the only dimension in which your destinies intertwine.
The solace found in such a fantasy is sufficient to rekindle any lost adoration from the abominations of hate, so he returns, with perseverance of no equivalence, to perhaps change your opinion, even though rejection is the only variable in this equation.