Lusting for Miss P

I saw Miss P again yesterday. For the first time, in person. As always, time froze (along with most of my bodily functons). She was stopped at a red light and I was a mere pedestrian; not even "just another face in the crowd" or a momentary blur on the periphery of her awareness. I had the staring role in a zen koan, "If you are not noticed, do you even exist?" None the less, that eternal brief moment with Miss P stayed with me for the day (and night). Oh, cold hearted orb. You provide little companionship in the early morning hours.

Miss P is no ordinary creature. She posses the classic simple elegance, grace, beauty and self -assuredness that makes comparisons to Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn seem woefully feeble. Age fears her, because she seems to drink it in and effortlessly blossoms even more. Oh, Miss P, my dreams!

To be sure, Miss P also possesses great taste and discretion. She does not chase fame and has no desire to. The paparazzi do not even bother to follow her, because they know that the tabloids will pay millions of dollars for pictures of farm animals, but not a penny for an original Monet or da Vinci. Oh, the nights without sleep!

Her movies are few and far between making the longing and the mystery that much more unsettling. She has exquisite taste in roles, but there is nary a leading man alive that can match her skill of the craft or presence on the big screen. One rarely sees Miss P on the television - and never in commercials. She does print ads, but only in the magazines where Rolex watches and the latest private Lear jets are advertised. All the worse for me, because I can not afford those publications much less fathom the lifestyle of a person that gets their Christmas gift ideas from them. Oh, cruel world! I am a worker bee and Miss P is the queen. She is my Black Widow Spider. At least I could have a moment with her. Then my life would be complete and I would pass with a contented smile.

I am Shakespeare's Romeo and Miss P is my Juliet. I am Goethe's Werther and Miss P is my Charlotte. She is the heroine and the villain in my nightmare that is always just out of my grasp. One my climb Mount Everest, but can one ever set their sights on scaling the tallest mountain on Venus? Oh Miss P, the Grand Canyon is but a ditch compared to the expanse that separates us.

I know I should stop this self-torment. Miss P is beyond me, above me, nowhere and everywhere. I am doing myself no good. I could bear my soul a million times more and it would not make anything other than how it is now. I am the dog poop that is missed, left to rot, being eaten up from the inside out by the larva of despair, longing and lust.

Oh Miss P, I know what I must do. One final act to end this madness. I must tell somebody, anybody, who you really are. I will excorcise the mystery. I will let the pen tell the paper and it will be done. Don't you know already? I know that you have seen her. She is the no longer lusted after 1975 Porsche 911 Carrera - silver, of course. Good bye, Miss P.