Anastasia

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There was something powerfully beguiling about the excited eyes of this young woman. They could pull all manners of nonsense out of any young foolish man, and I was no exception to this rule. To try and describe this visage of a woman would be a fallacy in itself, an injustice to her true presence. With one smile she could momentarily render a man breathless, she was as cheerful as a good laugh in your throat and as precious as a song in your heart. Pure truth is that she was a luxury I could not afford. More valuable than the ocean to a sailor or the sun on a winter's day. She was an entity that deserved to be loved often and well, asleep she was the painting of a fire; awake she was the fire itself. I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme, rhapsodize and lie. I have watched painters stare mutely at their finished works. These men know nothing of love. You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of artists. If you want to know of love, you need only have seen the way I looked at her. The soft glimmer that radiated from her face every time she opened her eyes made it seem as if the very stars were made for her to look upon them. Despite all of this, I had seen how other men had tried to tie her to the ground and failed. So I did not try to win her over like all the others before me. Instead, I contended myself with playing a beautiful game, but of course, there was always a part of me that hoped for more… a part of me that was always a fool.

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