The Beauty in the Unaccustomed Voice

I generally think I have become a rather depressed and broken shadow since the woman I love decided she no longer wanted me. My esteem for myself is mostly on the floor with the chewing gum, cigarette butts and dust.

When I think about the times I spend outside the humanistic altruisms and ideals of my mind, I’m not so bad. I am often compelled to tell the people out there how beautiful they are. The strangers. I only do this to those whose eyes meet mine and reciprocate a smile. This isn’t so much a caveat for being regarded as beautiful by my humble and subjective self, but maybe a clumsily conceived signal that’s it’s okay to approach someone to disclose those poetries. I wish I could tell more. There are those who I really really feel could do with hearing the words from another’s lips, however I don’t want to insult through presumption or freak someone out by breaking their inattention.

I could be regarded as somewhat of a chickenshit though, I never hang about beyond the thank you and the light. I am desperately lonely, yet I don’t want my exclamation to be perceived as a come on. I only want to be seen as someone who thinks you are beautiful. The stranger who surprisingly broke the convention of social anonymity to tell you how beautiful you are. A wisp. An urge towards a positive narrative. Maybe one day I’ll be chased down the aisles or streets to be easily convinced towards a drink, though I really have no expectation of that ever happening. I just want to tell you that you are beautiful.

It’s hard sometimes, but I think I am beautiful. I would love to hear that unaccustomed voice tell me so. To fall in love with a wisp. To love a wisp forever.

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