His hands tremble, a finger running through strands of delicate locks of brown. Streetlight streams through illuminating the room. His arms enclose upon her body, pulling her slowly towards him. Eyes draw to each other, hearts racing, lips a hovering to a halt an inch apart. He cannot resist, the moment of temptation, a whole heart dependent on the contact of lips. His fingers enclose on her hair, his hand resting delicately on her cheek, his eyes alight with new love, as he pulls the girl towards him. Lips press tenderly, legs shake, eyes draw to a close. The sensation that he had ached for, the moment longed for without hope. His body trembles as he pulls back, her smile alight in the dark room, her soft brown eyes warming the depths of the room, Peter could almost imagine delicate wings of white hovering behind such an angelic presence. Peter had longed for her kiss for years, his heart encaged by only her, every inch of his being told him to abandon this doomed love yet no other had been able to tame him the way she had. From the moment his eyes met hers he knew there could be no-one else, and he knew for certain he would hold no other in her stead. Without thought on her actions, or even an effort, Amelia had unknowingly stole a heart until it could such be returned in kind. Until this very moment an empty vessel had drifted through sunrise sunset until the most tender of kisses should be cast upon his lips.

(1)

The bark was rough against his back as Peter lay beneath the willow tree, his green eyes darting from line to line, an old leather encasement of words lays to rest within his hands. His lips mutter in sync with the rhythm of the script as Peter lays waiting for the bus. The sun bears down from a clear blue sky, casting a shadow upon the ground as the youthful boy sits in its wake. His eyes flicker across the scene as the squeal of brakes bring a tortured yellow bus to a halt, its doors slamming open as youths start to filter onto the (bus).
His hair falls across his eyes in a dark tangle as Peter's slender yet defined figure reaches for his backpack, his feet dragging him (slowly) towards its worn steps. Peter's eyes already wander across the rows searchingly for a seat as oversized jocks create havoc, his eyes falling upon an empty seat as he ventures forwards. Peter places his bag onto the seat as he turns to seat himself, his body already (collapsing) when a hand grips his shoulder. Peter turns to the wide eyes of a blond boy, his hair closely shaven, his intimidating figure enhanced by an excessively large hoodie, his lips drawn back into a snarl. "That's my spot newbie, now get out before you piss me off!" he shoves Peter across the bus floor, with his bag following heavily behind him. The large boy sits down in the seat in a glow of arrogance as Peter nurses himself off the floor.
His face burning, Peter slowly lifts himself to his knees as the skinny fingers of another boy are held out before him offering assistance. The boy was not much older than Peter, his figure was slim, his hair pulled over across his head, wearing a faded greenday t-shirt with tight purple jeans torn with holes of wear at the knees. He guides Peter into a seat next to him as he tosses Peter his bag back. "You o'rite mate" he says as he seats himself next to Peter, Peter nods, "Jorah Masons the name" he says as his hand whips out to shake Peters "and I see you've already become well acquainted with the most loveable Chase Gordon, the officially crowned school douche bag" he says sarcastically, his blue eyes hover over Peter approvingly a glint of amusement evident. "You're not from around here are you buddy?" he says as he slaps him on the back, " don't you eat your lil heart out mate you have your own tour guide right here and the best part he's free!" Peter let out a smile as the bus embarks on its slow trundle towards the school.
Jorah's eyes fall upon the book clasped tightly in Peter's hand, " Elliot poetry ey. Love the stuff myself simply can't get enough of the whole depressive journey of self discovery, that ever so joyful Elliot gets me every time" he chatters sarcastically faking a tear rolling down his cheek. Peter mutters no reply, "Your not much of a talker are you?" Jorah says as he looks searchingly at Peter, "that's cool man, the whole silent tortured poet routine…classic" he drifts off out the window his eyes wandering the sunlit scene outside the bus. Peter glances at him, his mind urging him on yet his body a prison of mutism, "Peter" he mutters, almost silently. Jorah turns around with a smile, "that's more like it, nice to meet you Peter".