you know how to speak. but not why. this is your final exam. in the middle of summer. when your neighborhood is empty. they’ve gone to their cabins on the small island. you don’t believe that the small island exists. not really.
Request: @gothamsmermaid - Song fic- “Style” by Taylor Swift.
Notes: This came out a poem inspired by Style, so I hope you don’t mind :). Also, the way this is written was inspired by Ellen Hopkins’s writing format, because i recently started reading her books again and they are absolutely beautiful.
Song: Style - Taylor Swift
Word Count: 300+
Warnings: Implied smut, high school AU.
Young love consisted of dark marks on necks and hearts.
You were no exception.
You got a bad boy with a killer smile. You got him picking you up at midnight, no headlights on as it would wake everyone who lived on the street. You got the chance to crawl out of your window and passionately kiss him as the cool night air washed over both yours and his skin.
I wash my body compulsively to remove every cell of your skin even if it’s been 14 days since the last time your fingers wandered on my body.
I only asked you one thing; “Don’t leave without an explanation.”
It’s January and unexpectedly hot outside. I told you I love it when cold air fills up my lungs and when you last pressed your lips on mine I felt that kind of air freezing my lungs then my heart. It’s unexpectedly hot outside and my goddamn heart still shivers at the thought of you.
You promised me one thing; “I will never leave you just like this.”
Some promises are meant to be tangled in between messy sheets, where the passion and the words of one forgotten night full of desire lay.
Some promises are meant to be made during the sleepless nights in the middle of a small room with red lighting during the moment our naked bodies are pressed together.
You left me Just like this. And I got nothing of you other than the feel of your fingers in between my thighs.
Resolve is given to quitting smoking but what you have inhaled is too much of her until you cough and it’s her perfume that fills the air and the only thing your lips ache for isn’t the papery kiss of another filter but the moth-like flutter when she would whisper your name right in the middle of a buss.