He is new to my world, he is shady and antisocial. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps his eyes on the ground and a cigarette clutched between his middle and index fingers, every once in a while taking a long drag, and blowing the smoke toward the listless, endless midnight sky. I want to speak so badly, but I am so afraid to shatter the delicate boundary between us. I don’t think he’d listen to me anyway; I am nothing to him, and he is impalpable perfection. I blink, and the noise that my lids passing over my eyes create sounds like a giant thunderclap in the suffocating silence. I breathe in a staggering breath; afraid he’ll hear me. He is perfect, eyes a still green, like a mountain lake, but deeper, and you can see the entire world reflected back in them. Every star in the night sky, every dream, every wish- they all harbor there, little boats tied to the marina’s dock, silent and still, waiting and alone. I want to touch him, to feel his smooth skin beneath my fingertips. I wonder what his bones feel like, and if they ache as much as they appear to. I wonder what his soul feels like, and I wonder if it bleeds for me, or if even at all. His deep mahogany bangs falls in front of his eyes, and he lightly brushes them aside, disinterested and frustrated by its presence. He turns and faces me, his expression sarcastic, as if he just noticed my pathetic existence. But then it morphs into one that expresses torture and agony. He puts the cigarette out on the brick wall behind him and pulls his sweatshirt close to his chest, as if he were cold. He is glancing around, looking right at me, but behind me at me at the same time, as if he were searching for someone; I am translucent and he sees right through me. Disappointment covers his being, and he stands there for a moment longer, the orange glow of the street lamp casting eerie shadows on his face, accenting every line and plane, making him appear to be unreal. His eyes turn vacant as he slowly turns and walks away, clearly never finding what he was searching for.