So, we had our second competition this weekend, and we took sweepstakes! Woo! :) It was rainy and gross, yet we still scored an 87.4 I think. Pretty goddamn awesome! :)
Some photos of me in uni for your viewing pleasure:
http://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/308023_484948301529151_910452... me and my two friends :)
THAT"S ENOUGH OF THOSE FOR NOW
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWvZJJA1-j8 Prelims performance (I thought we did better here than finals)
but, the best part ever about the competition... was Miche.
You know, I really should just stop freaking out when she's all "shelby we can't do this" because like, the next time we hang out, it's always back to slow flirting and shy hand-holding.
(Okay, I jsut finished writing the next part, and it wasn't MEANT to be poetry, but I guess sometimes you just can't stop it, theoretically. I'm a novice, worse than a novice. I apologize that I'm too repetitive and the like. DOn't read if you don't want to, please~)
Her hair smells like peach rings, NOT peaches, as we've discussed ( "But nobody ever KNOWS what peach rings ARE!"), and her skin is soft as petals. I was afraid after our first meeting, afraid that we'd run out of things to talk about, that our initial romance was spurred by tears and blanket forts and hushed sobs.
She likes me, me for me, me and my words and my existance. She called me grand (who uses that word?); I was grand and a wizard, and a unicorn, all at once. She says I smile like I'm smiling with my whole existence, and maybe that's true- maybe she makes me that way. She smiles, too- this inward, pursed-lips smile she blames on her braces.
She's so unique, but even unique is too blasé for her, too bland, too eggshell-white. She's like me in the most precarious of ways, ways that make me fear for her and crave her all at once. She doesn't watch what she says, she boldly jumps into stories, embarrassing ones, deliciously nerdy ones, and halfway through looks at me curiously for permission to continue, as if she realizes she's jumped the gun and needs to retreat in shame. All I can do is chuckle and fall madly in love- "Why do you allow me to say words!" she'll shriek, but all I can mumble is "because I love your words" as I fall, slowly at first, and then all at once.
On the other hand... She's quick- the only one to take my sass, find an error in logic, and turn it back on me in .3 seconds flat. She works her way around my wit, which used to be so quick and unparalleled, and then smirks- her smirk, complete with the one, single, lonely, stand-alone dimple, carved gently into her flawless cheek- breathtaking, heart-throbbing, amazing.
She gets embarrassed frequently, but all I can say is that I love it- I love everything, her, her words, her existance. Her slight twitches when she's tired, her laugh, her mom-voice, her fat attacks, her body language and hip checks and green eyes and deep appreciation for Marianas Trench (read: obsession).
I had never seen green eyes before I met her but I never want to lose them. She says she's seen every shade of green (Because we live in Washington), and I had maybe subscribed to that lie before I met her. Unique eyes- Again, though. Unsatisfactory at accurately describing her and her everything. Her eyes look into me and see everything, and there is nothing to hide from her. Eyes she refuses to wear contacts in, only glasses- her peculiarness never ends, frankly.
I love the comfortable quietness of our silences. Silences that didn't have to knock, they just dance in and out, welcomed both ways, intertwined with our constant flow of words as closely as our fingers. I remember fondly the way her hand seeks mine, shy and gentle and warm. We touch, and for a moment the conversation stumbles- we both know it isn't meant to be, isn't meant to happen, but both of us want to.
She has tried to tell me we can't continue this, before. She has tried.
"Your hands are soft", she murmurs, and I lean my lips against her neck. Peach rings. There they are again.
It is dark and our bodies are sweaty and sore and damp. Washington's weather is unforgiving, drenching everything but our spirits. We sit in the dark and our sides hurt from laughing. The day was so fun. Her presence illuminates everything, increasing it, improving it. She holds me close, my face buried in her stomach, her hands in my hair, on my neck, on my everything- they dance a soft ballet on my bare skin as she presses her lips to my hair and squeezes me.
I've got her, I think. I've got her now.
She carries me off into sleep, or so she thinks, my tired eyes catching secret peeks at her glancing at me. We smirk. Great minds think alike, I suppose, and she gives me a reasurring squeeze. She's got me. We remember the day we've had- eating dinner together, hugs, hand-holding, cuddling for warmth in the stands, buying cocoa. She's remembering the dog-eared pages she would so deviously hate in our favourite book, if she didn't know their purpose. She is my Hazel Grace, and I am her Augustus Waters, and for now, the world is quiet and still but we are moving, blossoming, glowing. She says it's hard to end a story, but I think it's hard to begin, and this is where our relationship is stuck- awaiting the end of her previous, and the start of my new one, but there is no stagnant moment between us, no blank pages.
I lean up to hug her, and she holds me tight, as a small child clung to her collarbone. Her face presses deep into my shoulder blade, and mine to hers, and for a moment, we're completely alone.
She is holding me, and all is right in the world.
edit: I really hope she doesn't read this I might die a little