Duplicity [h.s]

71

Aven Brooks

Today, you called me pretty when you saw me in a yellow sundress—you've never called me pretty before. It wasn't like me to wear such a dainty piece of material, but today was a day of stepping out of comfort zones for the both of us. You cried, and I wore a sundress.

The grassy green fields made your eyes looks so alive, even on your harder days. The dark circles beneath them were cloudy and glim from your recent tears, but they never took away from how mesmeric the emerald in your irises shine. You were art, Harry. I hope you know that, maybe I should tell you more. When the trees blew miles above us in the established blue sky, your hair swayed like feathers. It seemed more a hazel brown in the sunlight, golden in certain angles too. I hope you appreciate your hair as much as I do, it's truly beautiful. You never have to do anything to it, you're just perfect like that I guess.

As I watch you carve a thousand year old oak tree with a pocket blade, I picked up more about how you concentrate. Your tongue, it sits between your teeth on the left side. It was just barely poking out of your parted lips, making the most teasing appearance the world didn't deserve. Your eyes were so fixated on the ancient wood you carved, pupils following the ridges you created with a silver blade no longer then my middle finger. Those same green eyes flicked all around the mysterious art you were creating, nothing snapping you out of the trance, not even the ringlet of hair hanging to the bridge of your nose. You can multitask like no other, holding an ashy cigarette and a switch blade all in one hand. Your long legs were hugging the trunk to remain stable, tight jeans clinging your legs with the rebellion of large rips in the knees. Even your knees looked perfect, how does that make sense? Every part of you was beautiful, everything down to the rugged black Converses on your feet.

Your flannel—it was one I haven't seen you wear before. A pattern of soft and dark browns. Accompanied by a plain black t-shirt beneath, it suited you so well. Although, I don't know how you can wear all those layers in tepid weather like this. You must be so warm, even under a shady tree.

I guess I'm just so fascinated by you, Harry. From the way you look, the way you think, the way you act. I'm totally immersed in you now, how did it happen so fast? Maybe it was your heart I discovered, you know, the one you claim you don't have? When you were on your knees in the doorway with tears in your eyes and remorse seeping through the cut on your face, I saw your fragile heart in its entirety.

I don't believe in love, you know that. But the things I feel for you test my morals everyday. You make me so fucking crazy, I don't even know if I'm the same person anymore.

But when I look at you with a cigarette between your lips and chipped painted fingernails grooving with a knife—I feel content. I wish you knew how hard it was for me to feel content in my life. Here we were, sitting in a field along a train track, shaded by a July tree and whistles of birds like a cliche romance novel you hate. You always take me to the most peculiar places, but I think this may be one of my favourites.

You brought a whiskey bottle with you, it sat between your legs with no lid. You told me you lost it somewhere in the grass, but I think it was just an excuse so you could finish the bottle. You took minor sips here and there, I could tell you were controlling yourself for my sake. I know you want to get drunk, Harry. I know you want to escape the pain you went through today. That's why you love dark whisky and white lines, it's all distractions to you. What I watched you go through today was so hard, and I wish I could take it all away from you. Even though the panic attack was over, you aren't the same. Your eyes are still a little swollen, and your skin is still a bit pale. You're so use to being alone for this part, right? I don't think you ever expected me to be sitting here with yo—