Autumn Bartle
The first time I saw you
I silently took notes while you laughed loudly with your friends
We were so different: the sun and a cloud.
I liked school okay. But I’d rather study you,
Fold my notes up to replicate how your eyes crinkle when you laugh.
That proud smile, every time you were the center of attention
Splitting the perfect face in two
I was humiliated when eyes were on us.
You loved it. The warmth in your grin melted my worries.
The crescendoing giggle
Proudly echoing from the walls
In even the quietest room
The immediate, reassuring responses
Promising to remember, always
The promise of hands brushing gently,
The flames beneath my cheeks
Whenever you made me laugh.
You would tease me every time.
I knew, though, you liked how funny I found you.
Or maybe, you just liked the attention.
You liked feeling seen. You liked feeling special.
What about me, though? What if I wanted to feel seen, special?
A year after I first saw you
The embers of the fire
Glowing bright in the dark
But not strong enough to revamp the flames
Threatening, growing fire
Burning behind your eyelids just moments before.
Bright red replacing the most beautiful green I’ve seen.
The notification of a text sent
Ensuring the message was received. Seen.
Just ignored.
The last time I saw you
Was winter
Though only June.
The absence of the warm hands, the reassuring responses
Was the worst
Replaced by formalities
Blinding smiles turned to polite grins.
The conversations like playing Solitaire
You were there.
But were you?
Promises and apologies built from paper
Origami “sorries” beautifully constructed
There for show, not to last.
Now, months since I’ve seen you
Every moment we shared just a snapshot in my mind
Every date, every giggle
Just a polaroid in my mind
Yet another image captured on paper for me to burn with my friends
I didn’t need you, they say.
I’m better off, they say.
Such a cliche, huh?
Crying over a boy that didn’t even pay attention in class
But there I was, broken over you.
Over soft hair and heartwarming brushes of your hand against mine.
All your intricate origami reduced to ash
Polaroids don’t exactly burn, I’ve noticed.
Just sort of melting away with enough heat.
My mental images cannot disappear quite so easily