Page 86 of Dirty Little Saint

We are ocean.

The madness inside each other’s cold open

Two sparks caught in a circular motion.

A fire that burns under all the corrosion

We’ve nothing left to give except what is unspoken.

When the struggle of our own making has led us here

And the safety of starving keeps us bound to our fear.

Objects in rearview mirrors move closer when they appear.

Through the smoke and the rubble, we’re the headlights and the deer.

Will we ever love this way again?

Across the room as we pretend

That our craving doesn’t exist

That what we want isn’t more than this.

That we aren’t a thousand degrees away from being friends

That meant to be isn’t us in the end.

It’s a beginning that can’t tell time.

An ending that we abuse.

But in the absence of nothing, you are mine

In the hysteria of everything, I belong to you.”

His hand is shaking as he sets the paper down on the desk. A hushed awe falls over the room.

My heart is in my throat. He wrote that for me. We lock eyes, and I know it in my bones. I raise my hand halfway up, unsure if I want to speak but dying to say something that lets this man know that it wasn’t in vain.

His lip quivers slightly. “Yes, Miss Blackwell?”

“That… that was beautiful,” my voice cracks.

He flashes a grin. “It’s the subject that’s beautiful. The words are merely a catalyst. But… thank you.”

For a brief moment, the air stills in my lungs. The room and all the people in it fall away except for me and him.

“All right, enough of me stroking my own ego. Everyone, please turn to page sixty-six. We’ll be reading Lord Byron today.” He pushes his glasses up as they slide down his nose, going right back into professor mode.

But I still can’t catch my breath. I don’t even hear much from the rest of the class. I steal looks at him voraciously when I think he’s not looking. I don’t care if anyone sees. Felix is mine. And I’m his. I’m tired of fighting it. I’m done with feeling guilty about wanting this man.

When the bell tolls, marking the end of the period, I stay in my seat. I ignore the snickers from the people who have probably figured out that the poem was for me.

I wait for every single one of them to file out before making my way down the aisle. The click of my heels against the tiled floors sounds monstrous in the silence of the church. He keeps his back to me while shuffling papers into his briefcase.

My heart hammers in my chest as I stand behind him, unsure of what to say.

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