So Cold (love you in silence).

There’s been a marked change in Tom’s responses to me from yesterday evening. In fact, his responses have become literally non-existent as of today, accentuated by my increasingly desperate clinging on. I just messaged him to come over to Newton if he hadn’t anything else to do (it was the fourth move I initiated in a row already – I don’t do that!) and he didn’t reply again… and a few moments ago, the doorbell rang. I was so excited I ran down the stairs and opened the door with bated breath, for which stranger would come here so late at night (everyone else would have keys)? I opened the door really slowly and peeped out hoping to see him of course, and not too fast in case the disappointment kills me, and I looked up to see a guy… and hope made me try futilely to mould the stranger-at-the-door’s face into Tom’s visage but reason shoved itself into my head. Mine Tommy wouldn’t look so bad, even with black plastic framed spectacles on. Mine Tommy has a better complexion, an unrivalled jaw-line, and the softest gentlest voice (and the subtlest American accent) ever, unlike the stupid stranger at the door when he asked for Wee Lit; so as Shakespeare says, “Expectation is the root of all heartache.”
(I feel fatigued and drained of life force with hoping and longing, listless and insubstantial as the lightest wisp of smoke. Darwin tells me un-replied messages and prolonged waiting signifies the impending end of a relationship and I guess I must agree.)
Oh my goodness it hurts. With Tom I’ve broken my rule about not letting myself get emotionally involved with partyboys for he seems so pure unlike the others, so untainted by carnal desires and experience, and above all he’s so sweet I felt like it could be back to puppy love if we could get together. That boy’s only had two girlfriends but I’ve had four, kissed several others and had flings that jaded and jaded me.
It seems like I must love only that which I cannot get. Times when I’m with Tom, walking down the streets with him, inhaling his cologne having coffee chatting aimlessly calling each other baby him dropping by Newton just looking on as I do my work, I feel as if we cannot be together, the language barrier aside, he’s too shy, very much a child when I’m already very much used to moving fast and I would be resigned to just simple flirting when he messages me, but now when he’s stopped corresponding I want him so much more.
Just now when the doorbell rang I was poised for hugging the person opposite as I opened the door. My legs were bent already and my torso coiled to make the necessary upward lunge… and even when the first glance told me he couldn’t possibly be Tom I was still calculating the distance I had to move to throw my arms around his neck while trying to fit the contours of Tom’s face onto the stranger’s bland one. That will not work but I am an artist and artists are creatures of smoke and delusion.