respectfully, with admiration

This isn't a romantic poem. It's not meant to be one, it's an apology dressed like it. And forgive me, for I've laid my eyes out to you for too long to call it decent respect. 

I am made of admiration. 

I am more obsessive than I am passionate. 

I'd worship you in ways that you snap back your head throughout your songs, in ways that you wear your rings, a perfect fit and prettily sit. I'd think of you as something holy, although I haven't prayed to God sincerely ever since my mom passed. Either that, or I'd be on my knees out of shame. But the soft chuckle you let out right next to my ear that vibrates warmly through my bones feels familiar; mortify wrapped thinly with silky comfort. Maybe it's because you intimidate me the way He does. And maybe I should stop talking. I haven't adored God like I adore Death for as long as I could remember, so who am I to say that?

Now, please don't lose your focus just yet. If you pay attention, you would take a glance at me and understand that I am a lost soul covered with an innocent face and a fun, welcoming voice. Some would, arguably, shower me with all the love that they got, but you want nothing to do with me, and I crave that. Not in a shallow or self degrading way, but I'm a hypocrite liar, and I'd let you finish off that line. 

The softest way to put it is: I would give up my hand, palm facing up, waiting for you to put yours on it. And even though you sit right next to me, in this very crowded place with iced coffees melting and cigarettes burning, I'd put on my glasses and I'd find that we're just two opposites bishops, standing next to each other.

All quiet, sitting still, illegal to touch. 

I am what you call a bystander in the middle of your loving crowd. A body that is present at your strikingly hot and loud event and not directly involved in it. With my eyes nailing on you, adoring your relationship with your guitar, painting you in my sketchbook and immortalize you through my words later on. You don't have to admit it, but you love the way they put their phones up, flash ricocheting off your sweaty skin. The way the colored lights dancing with you, fingers violating the strings, legs jumping full of ecstasy. 

You don't admit it because it will be shameful to confess, and no one is better than me at knowing how it feels. You don't have to admit it, but you know you do. I know that you do. Yet there is one certain difference in between us, because even though I put out my art to be enjoyed by others, it's the only way I can confess shamelessly without me looking right through your eyes. 

But what do I know, really? 

You told me once: not everything is about you, and it sticks me with me for quite a long time now.

Still, I'm only a bystander and all I do is watch. Make memories and share laughs in the crowd. Admire silently without muttering a word. I never touched the pit or pulling the strings on stage, but you did both and act like you're a God. Now is it because you know that out there, in the crowd that loves you so much, someone wants you like a pawn ready to be traded off for something much more valuable? Or because having a bunch of them beneath you makes it easier to pretend you're untouchable? Does it makes you feel praised, when the screams and applauses they let out, rings your eardrums like a choir?

I apologize for asking such personal questions. Because I know nothing about it, as I am merely made to watch and admire your kind, where fantasies made from interlocking hot and cold fingers to worships melody of soft gasps and whines glazing your mouth. 

But you don't have to worry. I'm not asking to be seen, much less to be loved. I am aware of what you're capable of and make-believing you're any different than others isn't going to change any of that. 

And through this poem, written like a being with nothing but eyes and hands, I have immortalized you. In ways not a lot of people have done.

Respectfully, 

with admiration.