cigarettes ☹ alex turner

XII

I WAS TREMBLING at his words; trembling at how they made me feel. You know when you're on a rollercoaster, and you've been uptight the whole time, closing your eyes and clenching on to the bar until you finally decide to let go and open your eyes? And once you do, you couldn't feel more alive, or more relieved? That's exactly how it felt.

I slowly kiss his cheek, looking at him the whole time as his brown eyes twinkled. I quickly remove my lips from his cheek and gather all my belongings. "I'll see you later, Turner," I say, giving him a small smile before leaving.

He rapidly grabs my forearm tightly, not too tight to hurt me of course, but tight enough to make me stop in my tracks. Turning around, I give him a questioning look. "I've written about you too."

I'm taken aback. Me? Writing about me? Having one person writing about you or to you is flattering, but to have that one person who has such a magical way with words write about you is a completely different thing and god, did it make you feel special.

"Why me?" I laugh quietly, still in disbelief, taking a strand of hair and stuffing it behind my ear whilst continuing to make eye contact with the ground. "I mean; there are so many people who are talented, amazing, happy, funny... beautiful people. Out of all of them, why me?" I look at him in confusion, feeling both confused but incredibly delighted.

He smiles. "Who said you weren't one of them?" He replied, which kind of annoyed me. I didn't want to hear this sappy, cheesy bullshit. I wanted to hear the truth, and me being 'beautiful' or 'talented' wasn't that. He sighs. "I know you don't believe me, lovely. I hope you do someday though; someday, I hope you realise your worth."

My heart warms again; I hated the effect that he gave me. Not really. I didn't hate the effect; I hated how I got it in the first place. I've only kissed one person in my life, but I can almost promise you that if I were to kiss someone else, I wouldn't feel everything that I feel with Alex. "What did you write?"

He rubs his neck nervously, causing a smile to creep onto my face. He was honestly the cutest when he was nervous. "It's probably my worst work yet. It's just horrible, but I'll show it to you anyway," he sighs, and I immediately doubt that this is his worst work. I am aware that everyone has his or her worst in something, but I couldn't think about something bad about Alex; it was almost impossible.

He looks through some drawers to find a rough, little black notebook, which he quickly opens, to see jagged pages with Alex's cutely dishevelled handwriting. He stops at one of the pages, which I assume is the poem he was talking about. "It isn't really a poem. More of an indirect letter," he clears up and I nod my head, wanting to hear it. He clears his throat and I impatiently wait, wanting to hear every word. He shakes his head. "I can't read it."

I nod; taking the notebook from him as he self cautiously watches me read what he wrote.

A girl;

not a normal one, I'm afraid

one with a severe case of individuality

suffering from a constant feeling of apprehension

a girl;

painfully skinny, yet a recurring desire to not be fat resides within her

uniquely beautiful

with untouchable, soft porcelain skin,

golden blond hair angels would long for

all smooth surfaces have edges

and hers happens to be her dark as night eye shadow

accompanied with innocent ice blue eyes