You know when you get that vibe from someone where you like them, but they don't know about it. Then you try to act on it and suddenly they are talking to you instead of the other way around. THEY'RE the ones asking for you to sit by them. Grabbing your arm to get it out of the way. Calling your name with a smile from the other side of the hall. Instead of the other way around. I hope this means something. Something I hoped for. Oh, and I had a dream about this boy last night and told him. He was only a little weirded out.
Her brain was full of dreams. Her dreams were full of princes. And Crayons. And metal robots and monsters that had long since escaped from closets. Of pirates who sing and cowboys with perpetual sunsets to ride off into. Cats held Sunday morning tea parties and everyone wears a hat of some kind. She used to dream a lot… and some days she still does.
She grabbed hold of that sheet of notebook paper (torn from his notebook) and she ripped it into two (four) (six) (eight). For the scribbles in .07 lead weren't the words she wanted to read. No trace of slurs through the L-O-V-E in 'I love you'. No 'I want to hold you, Just to be near you'. With each passing word, big salty tears form. As they drip-drop, leaving a big wet stain on the paper. Bleeding a blue through the white, white becoming color filled with a sky blue and light pink. The fringes sprinkled across the tile, and the crumpled pieces scattered between locker bank A and C. And it was over.
The newspaper clippings tell a story of love. Each and every letter cut and pasted into a spiral notebook, spelling out his name [iloveyournamehere] &everytime she slid her fingers over the extended flap, she imagines his face and his voice. The cushion of his hand against hers, and the curves of his body he made when he slept on her bed that night, up against hers. And that morning when she turned to lean against him and there was nothing left of him besides his scent and his sweatshirt, leaving the window open on his way out. His last exit.
Dear book, this is another day in my life. A life is like a book. A book is like a box. A box has six sides. Inside and outside, so, how do you get to what's inside? How do you get what's inside, out? Once upon a time, there lived a very pretty girl, who lived in a beautiful box, and everybody loved her.
Dear Boy I Heart,
A night ago I had a dream about you. We were sitting on the floor. You said you were bored and asked me to come sit in your lap. And I did. I finally got up enough courage to lean against you. Then you put your arms around me and held my hands. I smiled. You said "I can predict the future you know, I predict in the next three seconds I'm going to kiss you." and I turned my head, and you kissed me. I blushed and woke up. Woke up smiling. I'm still smiling. Two days later. But you won't ever know. Because I don't deserve a chance to sit across the table and tell you that I think you're wonderful, I think you're something special. And I won't have a chance. So I won't take one. I wish I could be everything you want, and anything you need. But I don't know what you want. But I know I would be anything if it meant being yours.
She insists that it's bad luck to step forward with your left foot first, always wishes on stars & keeps lucky pennies in her shoes & she'll never stop dreaming so long as her heart is beating. She's in love with life.
Took a photograph of my heart. For insurance purposes. In case it gets broken. Or just plain out falls apart. And then I took out my beating heart. And used it for collateral. In building this relationship. I’m on the third mortgage. Just incase you didn't know. And I can’t afford these payments anymore. Because every tear drains my accounts. And I’m at a loss for words here. Won’t you sign your name on this slip of paper. It reads, "I trust in the holder of this account to pay what’s due, and on time" otherwise my accounts marked invalid. And they put a stamp on my heart that reads "fragile, handle with care.”
I’m in love with you five years running. I’ve been running from you, five years loving. Give me something to go by, I don’t have enough courage to say I wish you would never leave, this shitty town is nothing without you in it, and this shitty life is nothing without you in it. I think your the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You gave me the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt. I can’t breathe unless I know where you are, I won’t breathe unless I know somehow we could be sharing the same air. Every single day for the last five years every thought I’ve had has found its way back to you. Every. Single. Thought. Your the best thing I’ve ever known. You’re everything I’ve never had. Maybe one day I might tell you.
She snaps big stretchy pink bubbles over her tongue and checks her lip gloss in the rearview mirror, causing sis to scream. She plays the radio too loud and bites her nails, wondering if the glitter polish will poison her. She puts her bare feet up on the dash to admire her tan legs and the blonde hair that is so soft she doesn't have to shave. She wears a val surf t-shirt and boys' boxer shorts and she has a boy's phone number scrawled on her hand. Part of her wants to spit on it and rub it off, and part of her wishes it was written in huge numbers across her belly, his name in gang letters, like a tattoo. She never wore make up or shoes. She was a teenage fairy.