There he sits, glaring up at me: I shudder.
In wondering the meaning for this
strange interaction, haunting memories appear.
Now, he is my Paris: with no comparison to
my true love, Romeo.
To the outside we appeared compatible;
time proved to show our accurate selves.
This glimpse within his dark sinister smiling eyes,
I question his thinking: if I perhaps be,
Or his Rosaline?
This glance leaves me pondering in my mind;
Could he have moved on?
I claim this with no egotistical cares,
claiming either portrayal makes no difference to me,
but moreover changes my whole outlook on life:
it being the question that runs my existence.
How much long shall I look over my shoulder,
to carry the grief and pain of simply hearing his name?
But, I am left with no answer from his eerie, un-nerving stare.
I shall rather be slain having some great wonderful jest,
like Mercutio’s many double meanings; causing
the ever raging Tybalt, to send his murdering knife-like glare at me.