Silent Despair

What is it of her that I confess today?
I glare at her silhouette with pain.
As I contentedly went about my way,
her path traversed my life one day
and upset the tread in my traveled lane.

Her demeanor was distant, quaint and kept;
it entrapped my fancy with a gentle sting.
She forced my reasoning to become inept
and obsessed my dreams each night I slept.
I surrender to the agony that each day will bring.

Do I suffer more now than I suffered then?
If I bore the authority of the events of time,
would I submit to encountering her again
or remit this moment among the days of when
I considered my state of solitude sublime?

In solitude still, I ponder the mere chance
that perhaps I, alone, could end the despair.
If I could strangle my pride and make an advance,
I would make each day with her more than a glance.
Yet I return to my shadows and adore her from there.