“Truly?” He whispered, his breath as subtle as the blue in his gray eyes.
“Honestly.” I replied, my breath as faint as the distance between our lips. Would they feel like velvet, would they feel like Saints? Would they steal my passion?
—Would they make me faint? Touching them to mine, for one truth the questions would end. And with one truth the mystery would slip from my grasp.
And I loved the hold I had.
Loved the way he looks so sad—darkened hair, cosmic stare—his purple shirts, his faded pants.
Loved the way he smelled like the rants of movie star knock-outs. The way he smelled of a sapphire nothing, an emerald something, and a ruby maybe—those stray lights found his eyes—they beam so many emotions.

Emotions—can he feel mine, as he turns—his question answered. The teacher never even knew, but he doesn’t like to risk something new. So whispers a question while I restrain, would Miss. Addison care if I kissed the back of his head? Would I care if he figured it out right then?
“Fern. Pay attention.” She says it like I never do. How much attention can I pay to her when I have you—the distraction—perfectly blocking my already hazy view? Not, I whisper to myself, like I mind. I simply don’t—so silly, so silly silly silly, yes, I know, but I simply don’t care. Why start with an empty page? Why not one scribbled upon with a tint of age?
Could I draw upon you? The fantasies I breathe upon my breath, the ones that you don’t hear, but when my oxygen brushes your ear it’s meant to convey something. Something that I could never convey physically, verbally—boy you’ve got it made.
I’d trade my sexual frustration any day.

Any day I see you is a day I want you. It’s like starburst if you actually like it, it’s like a fever when you don’t fight it down with Tylenol, killing the chills that burn and freeze until you simply can’t stand it any longer—you just want to jump. I feel like every type of color is becoming me, I feel like I can expand and expand but never pop—it’s like always seeing that new kid and thinking he’s hot.
But really it’s just you.
Just you.

Forgive the girls if they pant—they’re obsessed. Forgive the boys if they want to fight—they’re just jealous. Forgive yourself if you reject every one—save yourself. Forgive me for hoping you do—I’m just envious each time someone looks. Honesty--has it gotten me far?
Fuck if I know.
I still have yet to live an honest day.
Because each time I see you I lie.
No, I don’t like that boy with the apple in his hand. The one I shouldn’t bite, the one that I really should fight.
No, I don’t like that boy with the silver stars that glow upon his skin, attracting the oddest people in.
Proven again, my thoughts turn me out. No shelter, huh? So that’s what I’m without?

“Thanks.” He turns(half leans) his way to me, the side of his face a perfect profile of distant distractions, of law transactions my heart has yet to fully make.
Can I sell my home, would it be enough to buy his love? My heart ponders the question, before nodding a ‘possibly’.
Possibly?
Should I ask—he turns away, my mouth is like dust found on the bookshelves of an indolent mind.
“Fern, pay attention—this is the last time.” Miss. Addison warns, but warnings amount to nothing to fear. There’s more to life than playing it by ear.
So impressionable is the thing, but I see him smirk, his head turned slightly again. He finds my lack of attention amusing—and I can’t help but glow—the smile slowly flows from my lips as I itch to itch the sensitive spot in my heart.
“I think you should pay attention.” He says it like a secret to the girl that sits in front of him, but I know he was talking to me.
“I think that’s increasingly hard.” I say it like a secret to my chemistry textbook as it stares me down—why not whisper it to him, you clown?

I wish to study another type of chemistry. My friend, you listen, listen to me. It’s not so easy to wiltingly sit here, behind the beautiful that blocks the sun—this damp piece of space I occupy. I yearn to feel the rays—his rays—full upon my face, my body, (my lips), jealous stems from fingers splayed and too much time paid staring at other curvaceous features on certain creatures. He likes to look. He likes to hook them in. But I know him better than all the other pretty fleshes out there. I know the wonderful scent of every form he chooses to display. Chemistry class has me feeling the wrong way. The icky throbbing of a certain organ I won’t display.

He has me feeling this wrong, wrong way.

“Class dismissed.” Oh.
Evil. Heartbreaking. Despair.
Miss. Addison, you take away everything worthy from me.
Teachers destroy the best chances, the best romances. The teachers teach us heartbreak
early. Embarrassment after.

Miss. Addison, you must understand. He’ll escape. This class—he leaves.

I’m slow in gathering my books, my fingers sticky with sweat—clenching them like I wish to clench a certain shirt, a certain face. Chemistry.

Perhaps it still will happen. Still will be.
Perhaps I will yet make him notice me.
Ah. Chemistry. Your uses might just come.

And that day will finally be the day
I turn toward the sun.