Okay. This really has nothing to do with Harry Potter. This is actually a poem I wrote about a guy...I don't want to think about it. (Don't worry, I'm over him.) And, well, Ron has blue eyes, so it works.
It's called There is few because it really has no title, like e.e. cummings poems. This is inspired by his writing, by the way.
This poem is supposedly written by Hermione after Ron and Lavender start dating, maybe after the canary scene? I'm posting it because it's the best poem I've ever written. So. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: The poem is mine. Harry Potter is not.
The tears splatter the paper, she can't see, and it's just as well because who needs vision really, when all hope is lost and the world has stopped revolving? She wonders what the hell that means and sniffs, trying to regain composure before she comes in, the little bitch, and maybe with him pulling her hand and leading her like he wants to show her off--
A fresh outbreak of tears and she grabs the quill, scratching ferociously away. His image is burned in her mind. She sees everything through him.
There is few
stuff
in this world
that makes me dream
that way of dreaming
awash
in numbness
than other that littletuftofhair
on the back of
your neck
Oh, to touch
Your vision apparating
hazily I
see and
beat it jumps back and back and
deep and far (for
the)
feather of rose on your cheeks and
arms so cold I can feel
your shiver
We can keep this our little secret can't we
no
of course not of course we can't you reply and
Surely you
understand right and can you hear me or is
the smirk I am just
imagining
and I reach out to you calling,
But your arms are
so cold I
thought I was meant to make you warm
and was it
your shiver I felt or my own as I guessed I would
be slipping
falling into the deep
recesses of rejection
and I never
kissed those rosy
cheeks and in the future not too
but a clear
glass splinter
of hopes jutting into my thoughts and
reflecting
so shiny like the pools of
sapphire that your eyes were once
but
remain in ruins
and o your smile when
my heart falls sinking
back
and far and deep
and I dimple when you
glance
near me
trying to meet those pristine
pools which are no
more
or as I say when those who ask me
and the inspiration is
gone
forever almost
like trying to be strong when
you appear
and I say,
You are no more for me
(almost)
always--!
and it goes on.
