i walk you to class, our stubby legs powering through the hallways.
i try so desperately to keep my hands on my books, although the digits reach towards yours on their own accord.
we walk, laughing at your friends.
i know i’ll be quite late to class, i always have to push it.
if i had it my way, neither of us would attend first period.
your baggy clothes would come off, the constricting binder would go on.
i’d fix up your hair and make you feel comfortable.
i’d give you a sweater of mine and i’d whisk you into my soccer mom van.
i’d drive us far away, my hand glued to yours the whole way.
we’d go out, ignoring stares and just being.
we can’t do that here.
here i can’t even call you mine.
i have to spend 8 hours without seeing you and 8 hours without holding you it’s like i’m spending 8 hours without loving you.
that’s why i walk you to class.
you go to freshmen biology while i go to college level composition.
you take french one, i’m in spanish four.
i drop you off.
super christian Abbie gives me a look.
but god, i’d love to see her face if i had it my way.
i’d pin you up against someone’s locker, preferably hers, and call you mine, claim you as me, you’d be mine.
we wouldn’t care.
Abbie’s face would contort into a sour look like someone squirted lemon juice in her mouth, her mind searching for bible verses to condemn us with, her hands already grasping markers to scrawl “god hates ****” in big angry letters on poster boards.
but you’d be mine.