Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Poetry dripped from his lips. Chris was in my Romantic Poetry class and he had this massive head of blond, cherubic curls that accompanied his blue eyes in a beautiful, yet cliché manner. Each time he spoke about the poem we were discussing, whether it was Keats or Wordsworth, my mind completely imploded into a billion pieces, completely missing everything he said. One day after class I actually mustered up the courage to talk to him. As we walked through the campus quad with coffees in hand, I realized that I had no chance with this guy. He was impossibly enigmatic and sickeningly sweet at the same time. I knew I was doomed. A week after our casual après-class walk, I saw Chris chatting up a lithe brunette across from the library. I never spoke to Chris again after that – I guess sometimes you just know when to quit before you’re ahead.