Roses are Red

And blood is blue

Tufts of snow dance through the sky and drift lazily to the forest floor. The world is covered with a white carpet. It reminds me of cackling fires; of scathing-hot hot chocolate; of workers clutching wooden mugs; of hands scraping together to keep out the cold. 

Will-Liam's hair is sprinkled white. His cheeks are flushed red, his footsteps crunching in the crumbling snow.

I don’t like that he likes you, Will-Liam says when we reach my door.

It’s not like that-

Then what is it like?

There is an uncomfortable pause before the anger leeches from his eyes and he slips his hand into mine.

I am sorry, he says.

But then he jerks away, the muscles bulging from his arms and his eyes straining in their sockets.

Will, I say, cupping his face in my hands. Will.

He drags my hands away. Takes a shaky breath as he shakes his head.

I can’t, he gasps. And I can feel his chest tightening and I can hear his head hurting. He brackets his head with his hands, his eyes scrunching up as he starts to see stars - as he starts feeling what I felt when I did not feel for him. 

And now the magic does not seem so magical, and when he says goodnight, it no longer feels like a good night.

Author's Note

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Rachel