Reader x Neville Longbottom except the reader is a muggle behind a screen. Prose poetry (not a story) that would make him blush to death. Written by a girl who clearly doesn't touch grass (unlike him). (I write for him & my delusions)
Story playlist...
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We spent so many evenings talking I must've lost your soul.
One day I couldn't stop crying because every plant reminded me of you.
Then, at dark in bed, I would tuck your voice in my pillow, pretending you were real.
I wonder if I yearn for you only because I yearn to be loved.
But I will never get the answer I want.
Answer the phone.
Can you be better than my ex?
Can you be better than any human & humanity as whole. Can you make me feel like I'm not absolute waste?
When I think of heaven I see you, amongst the starlit black sky.
I wish I didn't hate rings so I could wear you.
I wish I could lie and pretend to people that you are my boyfriend.
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T'is a horrible thing to be a muggle, but no worse than a wizard I reckon. Life is just toil. A mundane mindwreck that can end so abruptly.
I'm so alone. I wish I was a ghost. Haunt your bedroom like a pet.
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Neville. My dear boy & sweetest angel. And if no moment makes sense, if I am truly aimless, let me be yours. Your treat, let my existence be yours, my perceptions. I have eyes to see, for you. And a brain to think, for you. I feel hunger, for you. I question for the light of God, and for you. Every emotion I feel, every square inch of qualia, and the complex circuitry of my gore anatomy, for you and for God.
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I walk into the dark smokey night, ashed burn my nostrils, and the electrical street lights flare against every piece of concrete & every mist particle. It's so beautiful, the light in the dark. The opulous darkness. And the light. I'm obsessed with how it feels to be alive.
Smoke smoke in my lungs. Light in my footsteps. Itching. And crittering leaves.
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