Neon -

Since you died yesterday
I can tell you now
How life was never worth living without you around
And lessons were never worth learning
Since you died yesterday
I can shout from the Eiffel tower
I think I love you
Even though I’ve always been too shy to whisper the words
Since you died yesterday
All the color in the world has gone black
The birds chirp, but they don’t sing
And I don’t feel anything
Since you died yesterday
I’ll let you know I’ve wanted
To say it for years
And hear your response
I think I’ve always loved you


“What’s that, Megan?” Neon Graham asks, sliding into his desk next to mine, and whipping out his homework just as the bell rings.

“Hey, Neon. Noth-” I reply, hastily sliding my lame attempt at poetry beneath my English folder. And then it hits. “Wait-Neon?”

“Yup,” he says. “The one and only. But seriously- what is it? I saw my name and something about dying. Are you going to kill me or something? I mean, I knew I was bad at school and you don’t like me and everything, but that’s kind of harsh.” I plant my hand firmly over the folder as he reaches to snag the paper. “Come on, Meg.”

“I thought you were hit,” I tell him defensively. “Kyle told me.”

For a minute, his face is clouded in confusion, and then it dawns on him. “Yeah, I was hit- by a baseball at our game last night. What did Kyle say?” And now that he mentions it, I do see a blackberry shining on his arm. Which just kind of makes me feel dumb.

“Oh.”

“What?” Now he’s laughing at my bewilderment. “Oh come on. You didn’t think I was hit by a car or something?”

“Maybe,” I say, but there’s no saving my pride. Neon has me now and he knows it.

“Oh God,” he manages to choke between ragged laughter. “Oh my god. I have to read my eulogy, Megan, please, please, please.”

“The point of the eulogy is that the dead person doesn’t read it,” I tell him. “And if this is your eulogy, you’re dead. The whole privacy policy. You know.”

“Ooo,” he gives a fake shudder. “Is it horribly mean, Megan?”

“No.”

“Fine. I give up. Math help please, before Gravy collects it.”

“Sure.” I lean over to look at the problem, my grip slackens, and Neon is able to tug the paper out of my reach, just as he planned. And then he reads while I sit defeated and silently thank the good lord that I’m a horrible poet and it’s not all romantic.

But when Neon looks up, he’s got a weird expression on his face, and as I’m trying to decide how to phase out of a solid and into a gas, he says, “You know, Megan, I think maybe I might just love you too.”

So I guess I must be a pretty good poet. Even though I didn’t know it.