what she read
all heady books
she'd sit and prophesise
(it took a tattooed boy from
Birkenhead
to really really open her eyes)
- what she said, the smiths
You fall in love with him a little bit more each day.
He'll lie on your bed at night and leave kisses in your hair as you sit with your head pressed against his chest and wait for his heartbeat to quicken. And you'll watch films beneath blankets and laugh until you cry and cry until he makes you laugh.
When he leaves you, you tell yourself that you should've seen it coming. That it was too soon, too quick, for you to ever have anything with him. That all the talks and all the walks and all the songs were just taunts and ripples of something that was never there.
Taunts that included the sun setting behind the Quidditch field across from you and the Nina Simone songs and that film that you went to go see last minute in London.
He leaves you not in the rain or the morning after but over a letter delivered by a black owl that leaves you speechless until you're screaming for your mother to get out of the room and all the textbooks are falling to the floor.
And your friends don't say "I told you so" or "We warned you" but they let you yell and scream and cry and rip up the grass on the Quidditch field.
He'll pass by you in the corridor and the only proof that he was ever there at all would be you short of breath with the blood thumping in your ears and the cast down eyes, not once daring to look up.
He'll turn and look at you when he's with his friends and that's it, because even when you did talk, he didn't care enough, you think, to ever be seen with you. The primadonna inside you wants to puff out your chest and flip your hair and ask "Why?" but you'll know the reason.
But then you get angry and you fall into Lily's arms and wonder how the hell is that a way to treat a "friend".
Friends don't fuck behind the Quidditch field. Friends don't leave kisses in your hair. Friends don't feel like electricity when they touch you.
But then he'll grab your wrist in an empty corridor and you'll be falling over again.
Author's Note: You and me and September.
