He loves me as much as I love myself (not at all)
To my disappointment, there was no window that I could look out to. The city was hidden behind this white barrier of a wall. Who could possibly want to stare at blankness instead of the city that never sleeps? I did, however, have one window at the head of my bed. A fire escape ladder blocked the closest thing I could possibly have to a glance of the polluted city skyline.
Nights when I couldn't sleep, or when I could only twist and turn because my mind was going a million miles a minute, I would call Danica over so we could chat and intoxicate ourselves until I couldn't keep my eyes open. Although the bed was comfier, and this living space was luxurious, I'm getting a little homesick of my cold apartment.
I switched on the light at my bedside, reaching for my journal and pen. This was the closest thing I could find that would put me to sleep. It was also quiet, which Harry would prefer since he's been woken up by me last night.
I open up to the next clean page, thinking of what's bothering me so much that it's pulling me from my happy place. Oddly enough, the only thing I could put my mind on was the boy down the hall. Just a few doors away.
You looked at me
How does he look at me? With despair? Hatred? Affection? Awe?
You looked at me
With those endless jade eyes and
Your stare burned into my skin
Where was I going with this? Sometimes my hand has a mind of it's own, writing down words I would have never put together.
You looked at me
With those endless jade eyes and
Your stare burned into my skin
And just like that;
You became an ink on my skin
Sometimes painful
But I became addicted
To the way
You felt.
I lifted my pen from the paper one last time, finishing my piece of work. To add a little bit more of myself to the page, I sketched two people. They caressed each other in a deep kiss, holding onto each other as if they were the most important thing in each other's life. That's how I imagine I find my love.
I slammed my journal closed as my bedroom door opened, and there was Harry. As he stepped further into the room, I saw how sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his torso and ink was free for my eyes to roam. He was lovely.
"Why's your light still on?" He asked, not rudely, but curiously. He walked over to the closet, which I had avoided, flicking on the lights and looking through the racks. I had no idea that the door led to his clothes, soaked in his scent. Hopefully he was looking for a shirt so my eyes wouldn't feel the need to wander across his tanned skin.
I lifted my book so it was in his view. "I can't sleep, so I'm trying to write."
He pursed his lips. "Me neither." He did, luckily, throw a shirt over his messy curls and walk back into his room. "What are you writting."
He sat at the foot of the bed, furthest away from me. I smiled at how he was taking interest in what I do, and maybe I could tell him about how much he inspires my writing, and how he continuously tortures my imagination. Someday I will break it to him.
"Just poems for my book." I flipped open the first page, seeing some of the first literature I've written. "Wanna hear some?"
A dimple comes out of hiding on Harry's left cheek. "Sure."
I smile even more. Which should he hear? Is any of my work worthy enough to be read to him? His ears deserve something life-changing. I flip through the book, looking for the right page.
