her cherry red clam phone, her marble eyes that hides from the fringes of her dark brown hair, her hazelnut button eyes, her frequently moistened lips and her seemingly floating movement on the platform near the escalator down the subway have all evaporated with the thin layer of smoke from the train the day after he blogged about her.
she vanished like the liv tyler clone he met in the bus a year ago. his eyes made love with that girl on the air during the whole 25 minutes of his trip. she disappeared the following day like the girl who drove him in a red sports car to the bar. he never heard of her again like the girl who calls herself bebe, whom he dated twice, and has dumped him because of his height and juvenile features.
he blogged about them.
her presence disappeared overnight like the fading ink of the letters from his highschool journal. it was as if each part of her bleeds and dies away as he writes about them.
he told himself not to write about this girl, about this woman clothed in a porcelain skin, about this person whose eyes sparkle like pieces of emerald glass. yes, he told himself to keep his thoughts away from this girl, this woman, this person, whenever he sits on his computer to blog, or whenever his journal is at reach.
he is pretty sure about the connection he felt with that girl. his senses can’t deny the sparks that flew in all directions the first day he saw her sitting in front of him on the bus to north hollywood. no, he won’t blog about her. he won’t blog about how his muscles throb in excitement whenever a lost strand of her hair would brush against his face. no, he would not write about the sudden drop of the temperature of his palm whenever a part of her body- her lean, developed, inviting body would touch his skin. no, he will never, ever, eveeer speak about her, and how she excites his senses in the morning. and no, as in he will absolutely not tell anyone about her scholarly yet sexy aura. she reminds him of the whore of mensa but he never really see her as one. for him, she’s sexy and smart, just like that. he thinks women who look good wearing glasses are the exciting ones.
he still wanted to see her so he won’t blog about her.
her purple striped long sleeved top that hugs the shape of her body perfectly, her neatly combed ponytail, her relaxing scent-almost everything about her, he told himself he will not blog at all. no, never will he blog about her, about that girl, that woman, that person who leaves at the third station before the subway. no, this ain’t a blog about her.