The first time you hear his voice it’s simply angelic, heaven’s going to hate me. The first time you look at him it’s similarly described as in a romantic novel. How clear and bright his eyes get when he smiles or when he’s talking about something he loves. The weird hand gestures he makes when he’s talking about something he hates, or the first time you hear him cuss. It’s all very intriguing, perhaps it may confuse you into thinking it is love at first sight. Staring at him a little longer, smiling a bit wider, desiring him a bit harder; it’s all just the side effects of his charm. None of it is actually real, you don’t actually feel fuzzy or weightless. That side grin doesn’t flutter your heart and his ridiculously long lashes do not actually blow you, or me, away. Despite knowing you aren’t actually fond of him, can’t help but think how his lips would feel against mine. Soft and gentle or aggressive and passionate? Where would his hands be placed, in one particular spot at my waist or roaming around my body? All these questions with no real intention of finding out the answers. Some people call it love, others call it lust; I don’t want to call it anything. Why would you trust someone like him? Why put any label onto something so insignificant? Yet, I can’t help think how careful he would hold my heart; the thought’s crawling underneath my skin. He never really holds eye contact, always so fidgety and nervous. Shy little thing. So innocent. Covering his face with his large hands or under his t-shirt whenever someone compliments him. Sweet little thing, gives me a toothache. A cherry boy, really.
I want something so impure from someone so pure. One moment I’m thinking how to make him mine, the next I’m thinking how should I make him hate me. Bit of a train wreck, he is. Clumsy little thing. I remember when I saw him trip in front of me, got embarrassed, and scurried away. Don’t care much for the humiliation, more for the fact of how red he turned. Again, shy little thing. His hair’s always in his face, too. Another thing I loathe. How he uses the back of his hand to swipe the wretched curls away from his eyes. Another thing I loathe. The way he looks at the world so optimistically, loathe that too. I don’t want him, but I detest to think about him with someone else. The itching curiosity, of the lingering feeling he could leave on something that’s not my skin, gnaws at me. When he’s not here, I go absolutely mental because here isn’t exactly where I’d want to be. It’s unfair we’re not somewhere misbehaving. Sweet talking with a hint of sin. Rolling around beneath the sheets with romantic proclamations of infatuation or etching artistic phrases on the downtown street walls, it doesn’t matter to me how we’re getting up to mischief; that devil’s always underneath my grin. I just want to see the look on his face when his adrenaline is shooting right through him. How wide his eyes would grow, how ajar his mouth would open, how dulcet his little mewls sounds, how everything he was ever taught just flies out the window because for the first time in his life he’s not thinking about consequences; he’s thinking about himself and what makes him happy. I want to make him happy. I want him to think about me. I want him to lose sleep thinking about how I never notice him. I want him to grow weary of my lack of acknowledgement. I want to know how his hands feel in my hair, want to hear how he laughs when he gets uncomfortable. I could write down the innocent aura that loiters around him, so different from mine. Everyone is waiting to see if I would risk the secrecy of my feelings, so I can voice his name.
Feelings are a weird idea, but your mind is something you have to look out for. Mixing both could be deadly. I was certain something ignited between the two of us when he reached forward, but in reality I were in between him and his locker. The vulnerability of that incident was tragic, but I know he felt it too. Or maybe that was all in my head. As I gaze at him from my seat, legs propped up on the table and my pocket knife slicing an apple into pieces, I noticed something. With the crescent shaped apple piece impaled into the tip of my pocket knife, I figured him out. Everything that I’ve been searching for over the years finally unravels right in front of me. He does know of me. He knows how I linger my glances and lick my lips because of how terribly nervous I get around him and how I insist I don’t know him and how I would give him the moon if he asked me to but would never confess that I actually have feelings for him and how I am fond of the way he swipes his hair and how I would without a doubt would be glad to be his first everything and how I know for a fact that he notices me too. He notices the way I am self conflicted about us, if that’s what we’re called. He notices how I blink too fast when I’m confused and how I’m always just as fidgety as him when I’m happy. He notices the way my lip curls into a smirk when he does something that amuses me. He notices that my innocence isn’t completely gone, but it’s not all there, either. He, too, sneaks glances a little longer, smiles a bit wider, and desires me a bit harder. How do I know all this? Despite everyone wanting to know how I make you scream, they’re all aware how you walk like you’re a deity of Ancient Greece; they can’t accept that I make you weak. Because when our brown eyes locked for the first time, I knew I wasn’t afraid anymore. The only bleeding phrase that popped into my head when you stared back at me for the first time in years was: Are you mine?