He was 17

(poems go here) Melodic words danced off her lips, deceitfully insinuating her friendly support. She choked on every "coo" and "ah" as if a shard of glass was cutting at her throat. The change in her demeanor was abrupt. Her smile, sweet but suspiciously stiff. Nervously she gave a light yawn, as minute tears welled up in her eyes all too easily. Just as she was settling herself to raise out of her chair, his eyes, gradient in an array of colors, met hers and held for a moment. That moment turned to seconds and those seconds felt like an eternity. His face inched closer, as if rhythmic to her hoarse breathing. She could hear the sound of his breathe. The beat of his heart. The twitch of his cheek. The very blood that pulsated through his veins. Did they too burn with lust and torture as hers' did? Did he even dare to wonder the very thoughts that constantly circulated, in an endless spiral of thoughts, her conscious mind, manifesting itself into a more pathetic cognitive. Defiant to how endearingly sheltered her poor heart was. Here, a simple boy of 17 years of age, sat beside her. His very entity in his bodily form, magnetised, it catalysed her. She was undeniably drawn to him but could not have him. But this was days ago. Bitter-waste. Forsaken chemistry. What did it matter? She was dignified. Self-reliant. A character she was, of only 16. "Be patient", her girlfriends assured her. "He's just a boy" this, and "you'll see why" that. One friend even quoted, *****"If you love two people at the same time, choose the second. Because if you really loved the first one, you wouldn't have fallen for the second". This struck her a bit. It stung her. Wedged itself between the cognitive mind and love endorphins. She slugged it out for another pitiful two weeks. Pretending to not be crazy about him. Pretending to be his good friend. But more and more, her patience was wearing thin. The future seemed bleak and her love life even more so. Mind you, she was an attractive girl. 63 inches, 112 lbs. Wavy ash burn, brown curls that barely draped her broad square shoulders. Dark brown close-set eyes, a high forehead, cheeks and all. Even in the time of her humiliating endeavor, two miserable boys had even thrown themselves at her. Yet she didn't care for their affection. She only had eyes for one boy. Morose, austerer was she. A summer of insomnia welcomed her under its fleet. And she feigned complicity. ****Quote is by Johnny Depp