I'm Jealous

It was 9:35 in the Morning. Realizing that I was getting last, I was almost running towards my classroom while she bumped into me, entering the university gate. “Slow down” she said. “Sorry” was all I could say in response, picking her bag up from the ground. While handing the bag over to her, she touched my fingers unintentionally, and ever since I’ve been jealous of my fingers, looking at them with mixed feeling of happiness, dismay and pain, wishing to touch her again, wishing to bump into her again.

I saw her talking to her classmate in the noon. What a charming, young lady having all the divine beauty, was she. I could see her friend listening to her with utter concentration, and I felt jealous of this guy, who could listen to her, look into her eyes and reply her in manly manner. It was just impossible for me to listen to her and keep my nerves under my control. I was too weak to bear her, too weak to listen, too weak to respond. 

I see her, carrying that brown bag, hanging on her shoulders, mocking every passerby, mocking everyone who would see her once in her eyes and lose everything to this lady with charismatic attraction, like I did, like most of the men did, like all of the men did. I am jealous of this hand bag, the way it dances around her, the way it accompanies her into her bedroom, the way it enjoys this privilege of touching her hips.

I see her rolling the pen into her mouth, pressing it under her teeth while thinking deeply and then holding it into her hand, putting her mind onto the paper. I see her saliva shining onto its cap for a short moment before winds take it with them, short enough to catch my eyes. I’m jealous of this pen, that feels soft touch of her tongue, rolls around her rosy lips, runs on the paper, converting her thoughts into words, shedding ink with every latter she writes, dying slowly, giving all its ink for her, giving away its life for her, into her hands.

I see that hair catcher, sitting on her top, holding her hair morning to evening, inhaling her scent, firming its grip around her, until she touches it again, freeing her hair, placing it back onto side table of her bed, where it witnesses her sleeping carelessly facing it. I am jealous of this clip, the clip that holds her hair in place, the clip that watches her letting free her hair in the evening, the clip that never sleeps, looking at her lying on the bed with closed eyes.

I am jealous of everyone who have ever listened to her, ever talked to her, ever been close to her. I am jealous of everything that proudly belongs to her, feels her, touches her, watches her. 

I am jealous of my eyes, my fingers…