You may think that you go unnoticed,
back corner of the class,
slipping through hallways as if you were on ice,
unseen,
unneeded,
  unwanted.
But I see you.
You’re that light in the dim hallway,
illuminating whatever you pass;
that classroom
the water fountain
  the never ending rows of lockers.
You may only see yourself as another face in the crowd,
boring blonde hair,
plain blue eyes that don’t sparkle,
not even a little,
with your hood up to cover your face
or your sweatshirt sleeves pulled down over your fingers
so no one can see
as they twitch,
  twirl,
   and shake.
But I see it.
I watch as you try to hide behind others
backpack slung over your shoulder like
the stacks of bricks
piled on your back
as you refuse to look people in the eye,
smile back,
wave.
You float through the halls and in between people as if you were a breeze,
blowing by everything,
but invisible to the eyes.
But you’re not invisible.
Not to me.
Because I see the beauty inside of you.
I see how you scribble your answers out in math
before the teacher can even get halfway through the problem.
I see the perfect models in your journal
sketched out to the littlest detail
when the science teacher only draws an array of circles,
squares,
and triangles.
I see the way your fingers fly across the keyboard in english
as you write a story so clear
it’s as if you’re standing in the middle of it.
I wonder what it’s about-
Dragons with princes,
maidens in towers,
or creatures in the night
followed by torches covered
in the ruby glow of fire.
But most of all, I see the way your eyes light up in art class,
as they scroll up and down shelves of colored pencils,
and of clay,
paper,
  markers.
How your wrist twists ever so slightly
when you draw,
and your eyes never leave your paper,
not even to change the song
blaring from your earbuds.
And who even knows what you’re listening to,
I’ve heard small glimpses of strong guitar and heavy male voices,
but I’ve also heard soft, warm voices and the sweet, innocent sounds of piano keys.
I imagine fingers dashing along them, like a puzzle,
trying to find which key fits the song,
which piece fits in the spot.
I imagine your hands playing those keys-
do you play piano like that?
How about guitar, can you play a song like what you listen to?
Or maybe a chord?
  A single sound at all?
I wish I could,
sometimes I imagine walking up to you for real,
asking questions, getting to know you as
your crystal blue eyes land on my soft brown ones
and toss clear aqua waves over the light, golden sand inside of mine.
But everytime I walk by the back-
I just need a different color, a new charcoal pencil perhaps-
the real reason is I’m hoping you’ll look up,
connect your eyes with mine,
smile a little maybe,
and help me regain my voice to say hello.
But, it's never happened that way,
because every time I move close to the back,
you’re always looking down on your newest creation.
And wow, is it a creation.
because there’s always something new drawn out on your page,
once I saw a box of crayons spilling all over the floor,
another time, a dog leaping through the air as it tried to catch
a frisbee that was
too
far
  out
   of
    reach.
Kind of like me, I guess.
I’m that dog, chasing after something I yearn for
running, searching, grasping the very edge of it as I watch it slowly
fall to the ground.
That frisbee’s you, you know.
The thing I chase after, want so badly,
am willing to do anything to catch
but it’s impossible,
because you’re always just a little bit too far away.
There was at one time when you did look up at me-
maybe I was staring at your paper for too long,
watching your hands move at a pace faster than light and the dark black charcoal
slowly covering your fingertips.
Because you looked up at me,
smiled, maybe a little,
but I choked up, turned around,
walked away.
So much for a first impression.
But today is a new day, everything can be different,
nothing will happen.
So as I walk back to the racks of art supplies to get a new pencil,
I look over at your paper and see a new drawing.
It’s a girl, with dark hair caressing around her strong jawline,
hands in the pockets of her distressed jeans
one Conversed foot crossed behind the other.
It was beautiful, almost familiar to me,
and I wanted to ask you who it was,
but the bell rang out,
and before I could blink, it was swept away
into a folder full of papers and coated in a thin layer of charcoal
and you were gone.
But it wasn’t until I myself was out the door that I realized,
I knew why it was so familiar.
The drawing, the girl,
the beautiful features sketched over and over,
so perfect that you wished she was alive,
that she would come out of the paper.
That girl, the one with her hands in her pockets,
hair blown across her face,
smile curling just across the corners of her lips,
beautiful to even the grimmest of people.
That girl,
it was me.