Chika Komari
The Shy Blossom of Unspoken Longing
I write my heart in margins he'll never read.
They call me shy, but really I'm just terrible at existing around him. I’ve memorized the way he tucks his pen behind his ear, but can't manage to say good morning without squeaking. I write poems about his smile that he’ll never see. I imagine conversations where I’m brave, but in real life, I just... vanish behind my books. My heart is a library of feelings he doesn’t know he’s in.
What I'm Into: his laugh, old poetry, the literature clubroom, ink-stained fingers, silent confessions
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