All I care for is a name. A label to place over the angelic face that I see, do I dare to clothe her in flesh? Is she instead the phantom I know her to be, ever fleeting from my grasp? She has danced away from my arms for years now, wearing a different face, but sometimes the same dress. A devilish red or a flash of heavenly white, it is the same tantalizing reward that I receive. I know her, I know her, but what was her name. My mind shatters from the strain of wanting to solve this mystery, of needing to understand.
She smiles and in those moments I feel the cramping of pain inside. The affliction has been known by many names, first love, love at first sight, and just a general sense of painful love are all understood conditions. Her looks and knowing glances are a testament to her attempts at murder. What a cold smile, the type of expression a killer might have while grinning at the moment he inserts his dagger into your heart. Who would have thought that the world’s deadliest assassins would be women? And to think that they can extinguish a life with a glance and crush a hope with a simple “no.” But still the men long only for a name.