The Imaginary Reveler



What happens when you spot the person of your dreams across the room? Do you take the chance? Or do you run? A poem inspired by the #JustAddTea Twitter chat.

From across this crowded room

I feel your gaze;

it bores through me

with a ferocity!


Dare I look up?


Will I see you staring

straight at me,

eyes smoldering

with desire?


Or will I glance

and find nothing?

No handsome stranger

will there be

seeking my eye

to make that


human connection.


The bubbles in my drink

fizz and pop

as I stir,

first clockwise,

then counter,

hoping for some portent to


a sign that we are,

or are not,

meant to meet this night.


As I sip, I feel the

cold, tingling goodness

and the slight burn

of the alcohol

as my beverage

glides down my throat,

landing in my belly

amidst butterflies and knots.


I should look up.

But what will I find

if I do?

A quarter turn to the left,

I turn

and slowly raise my eyes,



through my lashes.


Perhaps I shall find someone

not you,

but someone close

enough in proximity

that I can walk in

your direction,

without any true risk

of rejection.


Your eyes are lasers

piercing the soft flesh

just above my collar bone,

and yet I avoid looking

in your

direct direction,

the outline of your

trim and tanned physique

decorates my

peripheral vision.


Scanning the area,

just to your left,

I search madly

for someone,


I know

or can pretend to know,

just so I can be near to you,

just so I can walk towards you

and gauge your reaction.


The figure of you at

the edge of my vision


nearly imperceptibly

from this angle.


I dare a glance.


I see your eyes

locked in my direction

as my gaze attempts to meld with yours

to make that final connection,

the one necessary before we speak.


I watch as your perfect face

becomes more so

as your lips widen into

a delighted grin,

one I match,

my own lips stretched thin

to show my enthusiasm

and joy.


My feet,

of their own accord,

begin the slow walk towards you,

one foot preceding the other,

like a tracker trying to hide his trail

by stepping in another’s tracks,

yet my purpose

is only to put

a sway into my hips.


My hips jostle from side

to side,

a sultry swagger of my own

as I walk confidently towards you,

my target.



I weave between the partygoers,

careful not to spill a drink,

mine or theirs,

though they swing theirs about

in careless arcs and swirls

as they talk

and gesture madly

in a drink induced mania.


I step into the space where once you were

and acknowledge to myself

that you haven’t gone,

you were merely

nothing more

than a figment of my imagination.

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