An Event, in Hyperbole
Composed by Katie
Movement I – Languish In C Minor
I like him. A lot.
It comes and goes between me wanting simply friendship and wanting something more.
I lay next to him, heart fluttering, and I know I can't live with "simply friendship."
My best friend tells me how much she despises him and how they aren't friends anymore.
How she thinks "You could do so much better."
I draw on his arm, in permanent marker, no less, I 3 (heart) Katie.
He doesn't say anything, but I think I see a smile in his hazel eyes.
It's dark; a trick of the light, I'm certain.
His face is right in front of mine, our faces are inches apart, heads perched on our shared pillow.
It's not awkward at all (it never is with him); our eyes are glued.
It's over in mere moments, he faces forward again, but my heart is still erratic.
And vaguely I wonder, is his heart doing the same?
I blink my eyes and resettle myself next to him, not daring to touch, afraid of the searing spark I would have to endure.
He's not open with me, like he is with everyone else.
It makes me question his motives concerning me.
He turns to me again, eyes flickering with untold emotion (the darkness, again) and murmurs something only I can hear.
I like him. A lot.
Movement II – Guilt in F Sharp Minor
I feel so alive, my heart is racing, yet I'm so calm.
I'm so at peace next to him, it's not fair.
I feel guilty, for wanting to be near him.
I want more; more time with him, more feelings, more friendship, more shared glances.
My own best friend isn't on friendly terms with him; they're as off and on as my feelings for him.
Though, much like my "like" for him, it's more often anger and malice between them.
She tells me not to let my feelings be affected by hers.
How can I not?
She sees a different side of him, apparently.
I know he can be rude, obnoxious, arrogant.
But so the saying goes, "the heart wants what the heart wants."
I don't know what to think anymore.
My already confused thoughts and feelings are furthered clouded by this knowledge.
My heart squeezes painfully now, as I'm thinking.
I feel this need, desire, to talk to him, to see him, to be close to him.
Again, this guilty feeling.
At one end, I want something—anything—to happen.
For him to tell me he likes me, or doesn't.
The suspense bearing down on my shoulders is threatening to crush me.
He turns, and this time, his skin brushes mine.
Finally, the searing spark touches my skin.
It's hot, burning, but I like it; I want to feel this kind of pain all the time.
It's masochism, but in a good way, if that's possible.
The contact stops, but leaves a lingering sizzle on my arm.
I absent-mindedly wonder if it will leave a scar.
No, I realize, not on my skin.
No, it will only leave a scar on my heart.
Movement III - Hope in A Major
He doesn't talk to me outright; it has to be initiated somehow.
It makes me think, could he be just as shy about things like this as I am?
He's like a different person around me—does this mean something?
I'm stuck with all these questions.
Am I imagining his emotion-laden eyes, his looking my way, the scorch of his skin on mine?
Am I imagining all these signs? Or just misreading them?
I look over at him again, he's turned away now.
He glances back over at me, and I flick my eyes away, pretending foolishly not to be looking.
My hope is somewhat renewed; Maybe my thoughts aren't as far-fetched as they sound.
Maybe I do have a chance at this.
Maybe he does like me back.
Maybe…I like him more than a lot.
But that seed of doubt still remains; I still need to think, not just feel.
I need to steel myself for what he might say, or that he might never say anything at all.
But for now, I'm content just to lay here beside him;
Silently craving his touch, his voice,
Accumulating these scars on my heart that may never go away,
Ignoring all else around me but what I feel.
For the moment, I finally feel happy.