Dedication: For buttercupbella, one of my closest friends on FFn. It's her birthday today, and since I love her so much, I wrote her a poem (although okay, this was rushed). Do greet her, and read her works, if you have the time to do so. She's an incredible writer and poet; I'm sure you won't regret it.
Erika, thanks a lot, okay? You've always inspired me and cheered me up with your kind words, and it's because of you that I continue writing. I honestly feel hopeless about my writing oftentimes, but you always say those words that are so incredibly kind that although I do not deserve them, I can't help but smile and want to write more. You've been such a good friend, and although I am sad that we hadn't seen each other despite being in the same country - until a month ago - I want you to know that I am so thankful. And honored. I love you a lot, and happy birthday to you! :)
Disclaimer: HAHAHAHA I HATE MIKAN THE END. So uhm, no I don't. Story title's inspired by the band Maybe Next Summer. Listen to their songs if you'd like.
The ball of gas
that was the sun
shone brightly above the horizon,
illuminating,
making bright,
all that could be seen
through my limited perspective.
Emphasizing,
making detailed,
your disheveled hair and the toned muscles under your tee
and your crimson eyes—
those eyes that made me melt
and made me fall and made me weak;
the symbol of all that I'd wanted
and all I could never have;
your telling feature, one that made you you,
and one I could only see
during the summers we'd secretly meet.
We'd see each other
at a dark alley or a street corner,
at my house, at the mall's comfort room;
just somewhere secret because you couldn't let people see
that you'd fallen in love with me
when in fact you had a wife
and everyone wished you two to be happy.
When in fact I was a guy
with blue hair and blue eyes
who would never fit in,
would never be anywhere near
the majesty and beauty
that could only be called
Natsume Hyuuga.
And we'd meet during summers
because then she'd be away—
she'd be with her friends,
and you'd tell you were busy with work,
when actually you were secretly seeing
the man you thought you'd never love,
the man you'd known you could never be with,
the man who'd loved you all the same
though it meant he'd be pining,
though it meant he'd be waiting,
though it meant he'd be nothing
but the other person.
Still every day of the year,
I waited and waited
lived my life through the fall,
through the cold, cold winter
made even more dreary because
you weren't by my side.
Lived my life through the spring,
when everything was supposed to be
reborn,
renewed,
rejuvenated—
except perhaps us,
who'd long died,
became shells of the people we used to be,
because although we seemed so happy,
we were miserable with the knowledge
that we'd always be,
only be
so close
and yet so far.
But I couldn't help but think,
but hope,
but wish,
that maybe next summer
it would be okay.
Maybe next summer,
by a miracle,
we'd be together for real,
not hiding,
not living in fear.
And though I knew
I didn't deserve you,
and you deserved someone
better than I was—
like your wife
with her hazel hair and hazel eyes,
and emanating radiance
much alike the ever-present sun
on the infinite sky
when we'd meet and hug and kiss
and part
during those midsummer escapades we'd had—
I couldn't help but think
maybe next summer
it would be us instead.
end