Tragedy

She loves the way I compliment her. The way I look into her eyes and vision a future. She loves the attention I give. Me noticing the small nuisance that makes up her being. She loves my presence. Yet her unconscious nature runs in the opposite direction. Her love hides at the sight of me. I feel the distance, as it echoes the faint hint of emptiness when she says: "I feel the same... just now's not the right time." I think she loves the thought of me. But she does not love me.