I concentrate on my breath.  When I don’t, I forget to breathe and my heart beats faster.

It’s lame and pathetic, sad and sorry, pitiful and scary.

Words have been put together before many times—by many others, and still I feel that there is something I can’t get across no matter how I try to explain it or name it.

Infatuation is the easiest way to describe it, but looking at the word I attach to the feeling leaves me unsatisfied, because this is not the correct word.  I think of another word; a better one that truly reflects what I feel.

Affection feels better, for this I consider more serious than the word infatuation.  When I think of affection, I can see it nestle comfortably inside of the feeling I attach to it, but even still, once it settles, it squirms to get comfortable again, like a restless sleeper.

No.

It’s not the word that’s restless; it’s the feeling.   The word is the bed; the feeling is the sleeper who is restless; trying to find comfort in the word so it can relax and rest without squirming.

I continue to think of words and as I go back and forth, up and down, left and right. I tiptoe around the same one word every time I come across it because it scares me.  So I continue to search for a word that fits, and one that is not scary.

Crush?  No.  While not incorrect, it isn’t right, and more than that, it’s simply a weak word that won’t do this justice. So, I search for another one.

Again, I see the word.

I move past it in the same way you would move past a person on a narrow side walk; we are aware of each other and we attempt to anticipate the other’s trajectory, but we’re taking all the wrong steps and making all the wrong movements; back and forth, left then right, trying to accommodate each other.

I sidestep at the last moment, narrowly avoiding us colliding into each other and once again, I’m among the other words—searching and browsing.

As I look through the words, I weigh each of them in my hands before moving to the others—checking and feeling them for ripeness.

I pick up warmth.

The word feels good, and it adds a complimentary texture in conjunction with the feeling I attach to it.  But then as I feel I have found a satisfactory word, I start to sweat. I notice my mouth and lips are now dry and I need a glass of water.

No. Warmth is not the word either, so I discard it and press forward.

I come upon the word enchanted.

The word makes me smile when I see it, so I pick it up.

In my palms, enchanted comes off as a good fit, and I almost begin to feel like I’ve got the correct word to attach to the feeling.  But then, enchanted turns my hands into a bouquet of ridiculous looking flowers—fake plastic ones.  My smile disappears immediately and now I feel like a jackass.

I drop enchanted among the other rejected words before I continue my search for a more serious one.

Amour? No. Too secretive and dishonest.

Adulation?  No.  Way too intense.

Adore?  It feels all right, but it’s not fitting correctly either. Not the way the word I’m looking for should.

All of what I see and what I feel around me isn’t correct or right or true—so I decide to move on again to another group of words.

I see it again.

It’s getting closer, and again, I move sideways to get past it and continue on my way.

But just as I clear the narrow angle, I stop moving.

For the first time, I stand completely still—fully aware that just a turn of a hundred-eighty degrees will put me facing the word that scares me.

I take a shaky breath inward, then slowly release it.  After the moment passes, I take another breath and take one step backwards, and exhale.  I close my eyes and turn around so I’m facing the opposite direction.

I open my eyes. The word is there in front of me. And once I read it, I smile—and it smiles back.

I find myself feeling warm in the presence of this word, but not the same warmness that warm had given me earlier from holding it.  I wasn’t holding this word.  This was different warmth than what I was normally accustomed to feeling.

My smile gave way to surprise once I realized that I hadn’t taken a breath for almost a minute, so I look away and get my breathing back on a rhythm before looking to my front again.

As I glance forward a second time, I beam and read the word once more and see that it has the familiar face of a woman.  As I stand there in front of her, I lose cognizance—and I momentarily forget what it was I was doing, or why it was I felt so amazingly great.

I smile as I remember where I am and look back at the word, and again, the word smiles back at me, enveloping me in the warmth of her presence and the comfort of her eyes and the ease of her syllable.  I begin to truly feel relaxed and at ease, and I start wondering why it was I had ever felt this word was scary or dangerous.  And suddenly, I experience both the word—and the unnamed feeling—merging together as one.

As soon as this happens, the warmth of the word suddenly fades, and is replaced with the feeling of cold knots in my stomach and chest.  I read the word again in an effort to regain the warmth I had felt before, but the word just looks at me—smiling sadly.  The cold and the fear grip me as I read the word one last time in the hope of a miracle, but I know that what’s happening is out of my control.

The word steps towards me—taking and wrapping my hand in hers—and brings it up to her face.

Looking into each other’s eyes I can feel tears falling.

Trying to concentrate on her eyes and her smile, and the feeling of her cheek in my palm and the softness of her hand on the back of mine, I feel the cold knots in my chest and stomach grow bigger until they envelop me in a storm of melancholy.

I still hope that I might one day stare into these eyes again with a smile on my face—and that I would get a smile given back that was meant just for me.

I read her one last time before looking backwards; pulling my palm out from the grasp of her hands and the warmth of her cheek—I walk away from her.

***

opia – noun

the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.  -The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows