i know you aren't perfect.

blaise told me that lee jordan told him that you've got spots on your back and shoulders, and perfect people never have spots. i also know that your toes are long and curly, and that after quidditch you shower with your back to everyone else so they can't see your pink bits.

i know that you bite your nails when you does your homework, and i know that you always sit at the same table in the library (way back in the back, left side-beside the window), and sometimes when your tired you take your glasses off for a moment and rub at your eyes ... pressing in with your fingers until you sees stars. you do see the stars, don't you?

your the farthest thing from perfect. your ratty and tatty and sometimes your glasses make you look like some terrible insect that i should be stepping on; you've got no proper family, no status.. your absolutely nothing ... you aren't even worth half my breath. and you certainly aren't perfect.

..but you're good enough for me.

this could be the beating of your heart, i think, laying on my floor where i belong. the sound of the recordiograph pulses through the floor and i feel it like like i always thought i should've been able to feel you. the swell of the song and the clang of the guitar are like a rage in me that i can't fight off so i close my eyes against the crash and wait until it's over. for fifteen seconds, i am dying drowning dead forever eating myself alive for you, sailing a dark ship across a stony sea to an iron garden where i find you waiting for me. we never kiss.