𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑⁰¹ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ✓

²⁴a great high

clementine

Luke managed to convince me to show him some of my poems. Since we decided, without saying much, that we were going to be ignoring the fact that he was going away, he teased me into revealing my poems.

They weren't all that private, I did occasionally show some to Mara or Cameron, even send some to Harish to meld into some song of theirs, but it makes a difference with Luke because he's a part of a well-known band with hundreds of songs with probably better lyrics than my poems.

But he managed to praise my poems despite not having read them, convincing me it was okay to show him a chosen few.

He follows me into my room and sits on my bed, waiting as I reach under my mattress and get out a small notebook just twice the size of his hand and about an inch thick. It has a dark red faux leather cover with a few doodles drawn around.

It served as my journal, though I use it more for writing poems than actually writing entries. I always feel awkward writing how I feel to a piece of paper, it just feels more natural when I write in a poem instead of an entry.

I flip through the pages and pass upon a couple he might like, he's just looking over with interest caught in his eyes. "That's a lot," He mutters almost to a whisper, awe clear in his tone.

Finally, I stop at a particular page where I drew flowers sprouting out of broken clocks, a particular favourite page of mine.

I look over the poem once again, making sure it was suitable.

The memory of me witing the poem last week comes back to me, Luke's face imprinted in my mind as I penned each word down. I shouldn't be showing something like this to him, of all people, but he showed me such a personal song that I feel I've to somehow pay it back with something personal of my own.

I turn the journal towards him and he picks it up, reading it aloud. "To love your type of mind, nothing's harder to find. Your eyes a native of mine, too much of my kind." He begins, and it only starts to sink on me that he's reading a poem about himself.

Oh lord, why am I so stupid? I am genuinely praying.

"I'm down on my knees, I'll always follow. I promise you, until the end of time." He continues, unaware of my state. "Our house catches fire, don't care that we're burning. And we dance inside, but I'm hurting. That if you leave me in the morning, I'll have such a lonely heart."

His stare lingers on the page and I'm not sure what he thinks of it. This is my favourite out of them all and only because it's about him. Does he know? Does he hate it? "What do you think?" I dare to ask.

He looks up, a smile clear on his fair face. "You have to let me make this a song," He tells me, which I take as a sign that he must like it. "Clem, this is artwork! It's amazing! He exclaims, standing up and taking my journal in his hands and running the pad of his thumb across my sketches.

"Really? You think so?" I ask excitedly, matching his exuberance.

"Fuck yeah!" He shouts, as if celebrating the best thing he's ever seen. If this best thing is my poem, he must not have seen many great things. "Clem, you're an amazing writer, this is honestly some of my favourite work," He gazes at the page then back up at me.

"You're overselling it a bit, Luke," I laugh, plopping back down on my bed.

He scoffs, nudging his shoulder playfully. "Then so be it. This poem is a work of art! A great high of this century!" He shouts dramatically, waving his arm like a theatre man gone mad.

I stifle a giggle into my palm. "This century?"

"Exactly! It's fine work!" He plays along. "An astounding piece of writing! This poem's astonishing! Astounding! Spectacular! Sensational!" He seems to be motivated by my very amused reactions. "Breathtaking! What else..." He crouches down to my levels and kneels, levelling his face with mine.