Categories > Original > Romance
She Was The Poet, He Was The Muse
1 reviewRomantic oneshot, ahoy. It involves my ex, Alex. Beware.
0Unrated
She was the broken girl with the scars on her wrist, that believed no one could love her.
He was the broken boy with charcoal on his cheek, that believed no one could love him.
Alone, they were nothing. Together, they were everything.
She sat, alone, under the shade of the ink night. A cigarette hung between her lips as she looked up, fingers curling round the stick as she dragged it away from her lips, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. She felt miserable, and magical, and happy, and sad, all at the same time and she didn't understand how this could be.
He was sat with a friend, one hand's fingers deftly wrapped round a pencil as he sketched her. She fascinated him, there were no other words for it. The way she always seemed so far away, lost in translation, a daydream away - it sent shivers down his spine. He looked up at the same moment she did, and their eyes met.
She was the poet, and he was the muse.
As he returned to his sketch of her, she took a drag of her cigarette, and fished a small notebook from her discarded black messenger bag. Fingers nimbly receiving a pencil from the confines of her bag, she bit her lip as she thought. She thought of all the words to describe the boy with the ice blue eyes. She wrote, and realized there was only one word written in neat cursive handwriting on the page.
Perfect.
He looked at her, the girl with the dark eyes, and a smile lit up his somber expression.
She looked back at him, and mouthed the word hello.
He mouthed come here.
She mouthed no.
So he got up, murmured an apology to his friend and moved over to her.
"Hello, Alex," she murmurs.
"Hello, Claire," he replies.
"How are you?" She asks.
"I'm good, and you?" He replied.
"I'm good."
"Can I see your drawings?" She asks, with a tilt of her head and a devious smile. A blush creeps onto his cheeks, and nods his yes. He hands her his sketchbook.
Slowly, she looks through each and every drawing, fingers running lightly over the pencil marks.
"These are stunning," she whispers.
"Thank you."
And slowly, but certainly, she reaches the most recent one - the one of her. And then she looks back at each and every picture, and realizes. They're all of girls. Well, one girl. Well, her.
"These are of-"
"Can I read what you write?" He cuts her off.
"Of course." With hesitation, she hands over her notebook. And he begins to read. Some are lyrics, some are short stories, some are poems. There's one that catches his eye, thoug. It's called 'Alex'.
"Who's this about?" He asks, pointing to it.
She blushes.
Oh.
"Do you like me?" She asks.
"Do you like me?" He asks.
She raises an eyebrow.
He smirks.
She presses her lips roughly to his.
He kisses back.
He writes the words: Was that a yes?
She writes: Was that a yes?
He writes: yes.
She writes: yes.
And then he kisses her again.
He was the broken boy with charcoal on his cheek, that believed no one could love him.
Alone, they were nothing. Together, they were everything.
She sat, alone, under the shade of the ink night. A cigarette hung between her lips as she looked up, fingers curling round the stick as she dragged it away from her lips, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. She felt miserable, and magical, and happy, and sad, all at the same time and she didn't understand how this could be.
He was sat with a friend, one hand's fingers deftly wrapped round a pencil as he sketched her. She fascinated him, there were no other words for it. The way she always seemed so far away, lost in translation, a daydream away - it sent shivers down his spine. He looked up at the same moment she did, and their eyes met.
She was the poet, and he was the muse.
As he returned to his sketch of her, she took a drag of her cigarette, and fished a small notebook from her discarded black messenger bag. Fingers nimbly receiving a pencil from the confines of her bag, she bit her lip as she thought. She thought of all the words to describe the boy with the ice blue eyes. She wrote, and realized there was only one word written in neat cursive handwriting on the page.
Perfect.
He looked at her, the girl with the dark eyes, and a smile lit up his somber expression.
She looked back at him, and mouthed the word hello.
He mouthed come here.
She mouthed no.
So he got up, murmured an apology to his friend and moved over to her.
"Hello, Alex," she murmurs.
"Hello, Claire," he replies.
"How are you?" She asks.
"I'm good, and you?" He replied.
"I'm good."
"Can I see your drawings?" She asks, with a tilt of her head and a devious smile. A blush creeps onto his cheeks, and nods his yes. He hands her his sketchbook.
Slowly, she looks through each and every drawing, fingers running lightly over the pencil marks.
"These are stunning," she whispers.
"Thank you."
And slowly, but certainly, she reaches the most recent one - the one of her. And then she looks back at each and every picture, and realizes. They're all of girls. Well, one girl. Well, her.
"These are of-"
"Can I read what you write?" He cuts her off.
"Of course." With hesitation, she hands over her notebook. And he begins to read. Some are lyrics, some are short stories, some are poems. There's one that catches his eye, thoug. It's called 'Alex'.
"Who's this about?" He asks, pointing to it.
She blushes.
Oh.
"Do you like me?" She asks.
"Do you like me?" He asks.
She raises an eyebrow.
He smirks.
She presses her lips roughly to his.
He kisses back.
He writes the words: Was that a yes?
She writes: Was that a yes?
He writes: yes.
She writes: yes.
And then he kisses her again.
Sign up to rate and review this story