Poetry of a trying girl.

He was different.

He was different. I wanted to tell.

He was different for he wasn't a breath of fresh air, after being in a muggy room. He's what made the room warm and unbearable, making my breathing laboured. He wasn't warmth on a winter day, or coolness on a summers day. He brought chills up my back and down my arms, causing a shiver to erupt like it was wishing to be freed.

He was different. He flirted and talked to me like I wasn't just someone. He would tell me to go, lacing the words with a smile or a poked out tongue. He'd have pink cheeks, and a fluttering smile when we talked, at least I thought.

He was different, I would claim to my friends. He really wasn't, he just made me feel different. No one has had this stupid affect on me, where I'd stutter or feel my pink body turn red. He was only different, because he made me feel so different.

So as I ranted about how he's not like the others, my friends would roll their eyes with fond, because just like last time, he really wasn't that different at all.