A Writer's Romance

Part One

I need to write a paragraph abput you today.

I saw you for the first time today.

You, your stupid hoodie, your stupid shorts, and that stupid grin on your face that never goes away.

I need to write a page about you today.

You shared something to the class.

It wasn’t deep, influential, or moving.

But it did make everyone laugh.

Everyone, including me.

And I’m mad that you put your spell on me.

I need to write a poem about you today.

We talked for the first time today.

The first actual conversation ever.

Our pasts, our memories, our dreams.

I definitely didn’t learn your story.

I’m still stuck on the first page.

I need to write a song about you today.

We’ve talked for hours.

You told me how you’ve never had a best friend.

I told you how I’ve never liked myself.

We said our hopes, shared our wishes, and announced our dreams.

And while some of the conversation was bland and boring, I was paying attention to each word.

With each and every syllable you formed,

I fell more and more in love with you.

I need to write a chapter about you today.

You saw me cry for the first time.

Reality caught up with me and told me I was fat, hideous, an idiot, and that there was no surprise that I had no friends, because who would want to be friends with a freak?

I was breaking down, crying in front of everyone.

They all decided to leave.

But not you.

You stayed with me, and held me in your arms, and told me I was wrong, and that I could fight the demons, and to stay stong.

I realized my happy place is in your arms.

I need to write a short story about you today.

You asked me to be your girlfriend with roses and decorations and art and everything I love.

You came up to me with that stupid grin on your face, and I couldn’t help but say yes.

I held you tight, my face in your shirt that smelled like flowers and chocolates and the things that I love.

We held hands and talked for hours about what we wanted out lives to be.

I told you I wanted to spend forever with you.

And when we packed up and drove home I realized the stupid grin on your face all the time is on my face when I think of you.

I need to write a story about you today.

You’re all that I think about.

We went to dinner and I ordered something that tasted awful, but I saw your face and suddenly everything turned sweet,

I told you about my therapy and medicine and disorders and self hatred, and you said that no one should hate someone as beautiful as me.

I blushed and put my face in my napkin and smiled and laughed and talked, and for the first time in what feels like so many long years,

I enjoyed living.

I need to write a script about you today.

You took me to the garden to talk about us, and it was you and me and the stars,

You confessed to me that you hated yourself as well, and I started crying because I don’t think I can let the one who means the world to me hate themselves.

Seeing me cry, you rolled over and wipes the tears off my cheeks, all while calming me down.

We continued talking for hours and hours, letting the stars and the moon and the sky to pass above us, while we were dreaming wild, ludicrous dream that would stay what they were.

Dreams.

We stood up and started walking back, but not before I grabbed you and pressed your lips to mine.

It was like hot meeting cold, two people completely opposite yet alike in all aspects. I suddenly realized why so many people feel the need to write cheesy poems and horrible songs and atrocious books about this thing called Love, and it’s because I know I can live my life without you, but you’ve brought so much joy into it that I need you here.

I need to write a novel about you today.

We had been kissing for hours in your room and we didn’t care. I told you that I was too hideous to kiss but you would only kiss me more when I said that.

My hands ran through your hair, your gorgeous hair that I’ll remember forever, and we were just lying there, kissing and cuddling because the outside world was too painful to face.

We shared secrets and stories and ideas and philosophies and visions and memories and we talked about the unspoken things and how much I wanted to be yours until I died, because Heaven was the only thing greater than having your love.