A Book Of Love Poems and Short Stories
I Tell You I Remember YouI tell you I remember you, and you look at me as if I’m crazy. I am crazy, but I won’t tell you that, that would be too obvious. I want to seem outstanding and witty. Wonderful and charming. So I can’t tell you the obvious. That would be crazy.
You tell me that you’ve never seen me before in your life, and you give me a strange look with your blue eyes. I laugh it off, and tell you that I must have mistaken you for somebody else. I lied, and you know it, so you just start walking away and I try to follow you, but you’re a fast walker. Unfortunately, we do not have that in common. The crowds of people are heavy, and there is nothing better to do but wish you would come back and talk to me. Talk to the girl who you don’t know.
It’s for-casted that it’s going to rain. The sky appears to be gray, and the wind is tossing the trees back and forth. I really never know what’s going to happen because most things aren’t as they seem, and I know that, but I pull out my umbrella anyway. It’s a Tweety bird umbrella; the one with the painted plastic character on the top that looks rusted and badly molted, but I’ve always loved it. I place it to my side, waiting for my moms red mini van to pull up. Its gets grayer, the breeze gets faster. I feel a small raindrop fall on my nose, and I try to reach my umbrella but I don’t see the point, since now its down pouring and I’m soaked through and through. I hear steps behind me, but I don’t make anything of it, and I stay sitting in the rain that soaks through my jacket. I hear you say then that I’m crazy with a small smile in your voice, and I feel the whoosh of an umbrella opening behind my back. Then there’s no more rain. It’s gone, and even though the sun isn’t shining, I feel bright. I see the gleam of your blonde curls as you sit beside me, ignoring the fact that there was a puddle right where you’ve positioned yourself, and I grin as you tell me that you remember me. You laugh to yourself and I cant help thinking that maybe being crazy isn’t so bad. I’ve never had anyone sit in a puddle for me, after all.
I curse you under my breath as I look in the mirror. You are so beautiful, you and those gorgeous blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls that I could play with and sing Ring Around the Rosy. I curse you even more, as I note my dark brown eyes and straight wisps of brown hair and my simple lack of confidence. I think to myself that maybe a box of hair dye, a perm, and colored contacts could fix this problem. Then I think that maybe I don’t want to look like you. Maybe I just want to hold you, and sing Ring Around the Rosy with you, and have you let me straighten your hair so I wont be that jealous anymore.
You text me in the morning while I’m still asleep. At first, I’m angry. It’s a Saturday, and now I will never be able to get back to sleep. I look down at my phone – guns ready- and you’re name is sprawled across the screen. I’m almost to excited to open it, but I decide that it’s only for the best, and my fingers flip the lid open faster then my mind can think.
“Good Morning.” It read.
My heart thumped so hard, it hurt.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. What did this good morning mean? Could you mean that I secretly love you? Maybe you’re saying that you’re the only one for me. But tell me, how could I possibly respond to you, when I don’t even know what you mean? Then I found myself thinking that maybe men shouldn’t be so complicated. Maybe they should say what they mean instead of making us woman have to wait all day to guess the secret, and in the end, never respond to the text at all.
That night, you text me “Good night.”
I may have been crazy from the start, but now you’re making me insane.
On Monday I come to school with my usual grumpy attitude. My hair tossed into a ponytail, swishing on the back of my head. My t-shirt sticks to my side. I hear the regular clatter of freshman girls, gossiping and freighting about. They tug and pull at their clothes, applying eyeliner to the base of their eyes. All I do is walk in my sweats and t-shirt to my locker and slump down to the floor, my backpack beside me. In fact, I am so tired this morning that I don’t even notice whistling. A soft whistle, and its pretty, I know that. Maybe I thought I was dreaming. But there I see you, grinning down at me with that wide smile of yours. Beautiful, of course. You squat down next to me and you tug at my pony-tail. An overlapping hush in the freshman hallway, like signs of alert going off in every girls head.
… a junior boy has entered the hallway… quick! Grab and run!
You walk me to class. I have discovered the more you whistle, the happier you are. I don’t know why I think this, I just do. But I know I’m right. We walk a few minutes quietly as we hear the minute bell ring, then I ask you what’s been on my mind all morning… you smile at my question. Maybe your smiling at my ignorance, I guess I’ll never know. But you smile, and you tell me that you came by my locker for a certain task. You give me the same look that you gave me when I told you I knew you, daring me to guess. Asking me to guess. And a little cliché, I get it, and like a light bulb it clicks. I lean in slightly, smelling your unwavering scent, and whisper:
You laugh, and ever so slyly slip your arm around my shoulders.
The TV stays blank. I haven’t even turned it on; I don’t think I will either. My hand creeps to my hair, tugs, then back to my side again. It repeats over and over again, but I guess I tend to repeat. It’s always been my way. I repeat, and repeat, and I wait. I wait, repeat, and wait some more until the slight buzz and regular flash appears on the screen of my phone, and my tugging hands can finally relax enough to touch the piece of dull plastic and read the words. As I read it, I sigh, because I knew what would be on it. You complain of the beautiful girl that you went out with late that night. You tell me that she was just like all the others, that maybe your looking at the wrong group, and that you just cant figure out why you cant find the one. Then you text me again, after I curl my head into my chest, that you’re so lucky that you have such a good best friend like me. I don’t respond. Instead, I stare at the TV screen that I won’t turn on.
I told you, how stupid I was to tell you. I should have kept the thoughts to myself. I should have hid the feelings. You stare at me blankly, through the sheet of snow that falls around our faces in the frigid air. I can see my breathe in the fog, and I can see yours. They flow through the wind in sync with each other. Your eyes match the blue of the ice… I can’t stop staring at your eyes. You don’t’ say anything, and I wish you would. You simply stare, your ice eyes wide and face flushed from what I know isn’t the bitter cold. You back away a few steps, still staring, and whisper you’re sorry. Your eyes grow wider with each word, and you turn your back on me as you sprint away. My scarf flies in the wind, the flap sounding from the whip of the frost, and I watch as you leave. I watch as you run away. Then I fall to the ground, and I never think of looking up to see if you’re watching me too.
I wait for you to text me. I couldn’t do it, I’ve already said a thousand things to you in my mind. I’m waiting for you to do the honors. Let me know that you were wrong, that maybe you could consider me as more then a friend. Maybe you already have. As I wait a write a song. Why not? Maybe one day I will sing it loud and clear in front of a thousand screaming fans. Maybe I’ll make your name the title. When you hear it, you will think of me… that is, if you never text back. But my song turns into a story, and my story turns into two pages, and soon three, then four, and I feel no buzz, and see no light, and I realize that I couldn’t sing my song anyway because I wrote it with pen and the words keep running off the page.
I wake up early this Saturday morning, as I have been for the last sixth months. I search my phone, but I see no good mornings or I miss you’s. That’s when I realize that maybe you really aren’t coming back, so I put my phone back down beside my pillow and I try to fall asleep again. I know I wont, and I know if I do that I won’t want to wake up until I feel the familiar shake upon the side of my head, and I feel my safe life sinking back in, just like it would have been if I hadn’t ruined it.
I keep staring at the note, reading it over and over again in my head. I don’t believe in fairy tales, so this is some joke. Some very sick joke. That’s all it is, I’m sure. But you come up to my locker anyways, resting your arm around my shoulder like every other day, but something is different. Maybe it’s the way your staring at the note that’s still laced in my fingers, or maybe it’s the way your staring at me so nervously and uncertain; Something so different, something so unusual from your usual demeanor that it’s hard to think that maybe this note isn’t some joke that friends play on friends. Maybe fairy tales can come true. I stare at you, and you stare at me, and we both stare at each other, and I gasp as your other arm slips from your side and draws me in closer to your wonderful, familiar scent. Closer and closer, so close now that I feel the small prickles on your chin that I’ve admired for so long, and your lips go against mine as if they belong and we move as if we belong and together I feel we belong. But eventually you break apart, and there goes are togetherness, and the feel of belonging and you slip away down the hall, whistling all the way.