Imprisoned

Shivers

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xx Z

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Louis. He's here.

He says my name again, and it hangs in the air like a promise. His breathy voice so soft and so smooth sends shivers down my spine.

"Yes?" I almost whisper in response. The moment is too sweet to ruin, to special. Louis steps toward me and leans into my ear.

"There's something about you. I can't get you out of my mind." He responds, his breath tickling my ear. Louis doesn't stop there, he tucks my hair behind my ear and wraps his arms around my waist. I just stare into his eyes, intoxicated by his scent and frozen by his touch. Louis tilts his head and presses kiss just under my jaw. I gasp at the contact. His lips feel so right. But as soon as it began, it is over. Louis whispers a goodbye, nipping my ear, and walks quietly down the hallway. I watch him go, unable to comprehend everything that just happens.

My hand flutters to my neck and touches the part that he kissed, tingles still running down my spine. Before I can call out to him, Louis turns the corner and I'm left with my thoughts.

I have to keep reminding myself that I don't know Louis, that he's a stranger that I think I know. Somewhere in my mind, though, I know I'm wrong. He is my better half, he is the part of me that I didn't know I needed. 

I resume my walk into the library, surrounded by the thick silence that comes with the infinite knowledge of a library, and try to shake the previous moment from my mind. He will never be mine because I am going to run away.

My fingertips graze the faded pages of stories, brushing against curling edges and torn corners. These books are rarely replaced, so each one is an antique in itself. Some no longer have spines, while others are missing pages. That means we don't have any of the awful and cliche teen books about unrealistic love that give us false hopes.

I've never really been one for love, and I never really believed the whole sparks-when-you-touch or can't-get-them-out-of-your-mind. That is, until I met Louis. I know next to nohting about the boy except for his godly appearance and the feel of his lips grazing my skin, and his scent, so intoxicating, and his beautiful, beautiful voice. But there's no way I'm falling for him.

I pick up a tattered copy of Edgar Allen Poe and flip to The Masque of the Red Death. In all honesty, I'm not one of your usual girls. I enjoy the dark tales that come with death and defeat, and I love the riddled words that are so easy to hear but so hard to listen to. Poe is all of that wrapped in a package and tied with a neat red bow. Somehow his poems and stories always captivate me and take my mind off of whatever is troubling me. Because of all this, I am convinced I was an old, wise poet or philosopher in a past life.

After reading my book, I place it back on the shelf among my other favorites. It lies nestled between dog eared copies of classic books, like my heart lies between the walls I have built around it.