The Boy Who Wrote Me Poems: Chapter 4

The Way He Said My Name

 We were back in Room 302, long after the final bell.

Lights dimmed. Blinds closed.

He stood behind me. Close. So close.
His breath ghosted over my neck.

“I think about you when I write,” he said.
“I think about how you’d taste.”

I trembled.

His hand brushed mine. Lightly. Testing.

“I want to write you… into my mouth. Into my hands. Into my nights.”

My eyes fluttered shut. My body, traitorous.

And then he said it.

My name.

Soft. Reverent. As if it was the last line in a sonnet he’d been trying to finish.

I turned to him.

And whispered his back.

Not a word.
A plea.

He kissed me.

Once.

And it was more than skin.
It was pages of unwritten poetry spilling from our mouths.

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