cross my heart under the stars

-:-

-another moment gone-

People say that they know you. They say they know little facts about you, such as your favorite color, song, or season. They say that they really know you because they know your basic, given facts. But do they really know you? Do they know what lies beneath your skin? Lying right, sunken in your heart?

You bet they wouldn't know, unless you told them, that your heart sinks often when you hear your parents' hushed whispers. Or the way you feel yourself frown at the thought of a divorce.

It's safe to say that they wouldn't be able to tell you that your favorite thing to do is not dance in the rain, or sing in the shower, but stick your head out the car window and close your eyes and just breathe, breathe, breathe.

Of course they couldn't catch up on the fact that you are truly riveted by a boy who probably merely thinks of you as 'the little sister who follows him and your brother around.' He is utterly oblivious to the way you stare at him in the most awestruck fashion. Your parents shoot you pointed looks when you deny you don't like him, which is the mere truth. You don't like him, it's true—you simply love him.

But you've collected these secrets to yourself; a secret that your brother would never be able to hear without telling you that he's too old for you.

Sometimes when you're about to fall, you peek into your mind and unfold each and every detail and memory that you've kept closeted for a smile.

He's this enigmatic stranger. You're not just saying he's cryptic; he's truly a mystery. He's tall and lanky—just the way you like your boys. He's goofy to the adjustable sense that it's acceptable. He tickles you until your abs ache and makes goofy faces at you from across a restaurant table surrounded by your brother, his girlfriend, and many other friends.

You wouldn't dare tell anyone this, but whenever he smiles his toothy smile, you're screaming with giddy happiness inside. It's a crazy thought, you, giddy?

It'd be betrayal if you told other people about the way he looks at you is just captivating and beautiful in the simplest ways. You'd hate to share the little stuff. Perhaps the way he mirrors you across the table or has staring contests with you just to make you giggle like this infatuated puppy.

There are strings and doors that haven't been opened, they are probably accumulating cobwebs and mothballs, but this is something you didn't even realize was hitting you.

There are some moments you'd be crushed over if other people heard that when you're out sailing with your brother, his sister and him, and the breeze in the hot summer air just exhilarates you. You'd tilt your head back and soak the sun, feeling the hot waves inhale, and when you'd open your eyes—you'd catch his glance and your heart flew, sang, danced, fucking soared.

Sometimes when you'd gaze up at the stars, you'd just lie under the stars and inhale the stars and exhale the beauty of it all. Nothing quite competed against the ageless beauty of the stars but perhaps, him. The stars reminded you vaguely of blankets, securely wrapping your secrets and fears under this quilt of stunning beauty.

Now you don't say this about every boy, but he's truly amazing. He comes from little money, a screwed up family situation, and he is always making other people smile even though he's struggling with happiness.

Here's another secret: he's not only beautiful, but his eyes are this shade of preposterous green. They remind you of smoothed out sea-glass with splatter paints of brown notches. When he locks eyes with you, you can't tear your eyes away from his spellbinding eyes; they're not a simple hazel, no, not at all, they're just breathtaking—he is.

It's hard to say anything is perfect these days, but if perfect was a portrait—he would be it. He has his imperfections, his countless flaws, and his obvious inabilities but that's what makes him so human and unfamiliar.

It sounds great you'd say, but there's complications.

You don't have his heart, no matter what you'd like to convince yourself of, and you're convinced you'll never have it.

It's like falling alone sometimes, because the feelings aren't mutual. But falling alone is good in a way, you're never going to get hurt and you're never going to let anyone in.

But you'd laugh bitterly if they asked you what your parents thought of it. You'd tell them with a chilling, strangely collected dead-voice that they don't want you to be friends with any of his family.

No one can know about these secrets though. Because if they did, you don't think they'd ever understand. Because you're just so young to ever feel these emotions, because you'd never understand how serious you sound, or because it's just not right.

What are you doing? Chasing stars that are galaxies away? Reaching out faintly to exploded stars that have burnt out hundreds of years ago? What are you doing?

You're simply running in circles chasing the thin summer, sun-tainted air. You're inhaling the fresh breeze and tilting your head back to soak in the feelings that linger like a summer's touch.

You're kissing the rain and throwing your arms in the air like a foreign stranger; you're staring in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back. You don't even recognize the newly found grinning lines or the brightness that twinkles in your eyes in return.

At the end of the day, it's fair to say, summer secrets are best kept untold.

-:-