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My eyes widen. I leave the laptop and the picture on the screen in the living room and run to my room.

I knock over a couple of books trying to get to the silver one with the pages written out imperfectly, with different types of pencils and pens that always lay around at the most inconvenient of places, and with different types of handwritings based on the level of hurry I was in. I tug on it sitting bellow other notebooks and begin writing with a pen I found on the floor.

In my songs I don't want to talk about her body,

Because her soul is so unnerving,

In the only crushing way,

That can heal mine,

Better than time does.

And though I'd worship it, it is not to compare,

To the depths and lengths I'd go,

For the invisible pieces of her,

That I'd beg to explore.

The words look like a prescription of a clumsy doctor, but I stare at them kind of smiling, knowing they're about her.

There are many times where I want to talk about the beauty of her curves, the deceiving smile she offers when hiding the truth, her features that hide her...

I sigh, chewing on the end of my pencil before launching it back into some other pile behind me when I leave the room.

I grab my laptop from the couch and sit with it tightly hugged between my knees and my chest.

I look at the picture like a child, wondering if this is one of the things I'd keep as a naughty secret or feel guilty for doing it, even if by accident.

My fingers sweat and my feet are almost kicking without the permission from my brain, because I haven't yet decided if I should feel ashamed for feeling excited or plain happy that this has happened.

In the picture she isn't posing, but looking somewhere behind the camera. I can see it was the beginning of the photoshoot because the sun is still up next to her, and we ended late that day.

I took out my phone but she looked over and politely suggested that we use hers, since it'll take better pictures and its easier if I don't have to send her the material but it is already on her phone.

She hadn't said any of that, just because she is so lovely like that. In a zero percent sarcastic way. She did ask politely, but just tossed me her phone and said that I should use it if I want to.

I obviously almost dropped it, not being casual like her, and she laughed. I zone back in and really look at the picture again, realizing this is that moment. Apparently I can only do one thing at a time when a person with mythical eyes and other Olymp like features is watching me. I imagine she used to live on a flashing purple star, before she became her, and blessed us humans with her being.

Her lipgloss is kind of purple too.

Since my phone somehow stayed up in my hand while catching hers, I accidentally took the photo.

My cheeks flush a little when I think of the moment, because what if she felt weird me having her pictures, uncomfortable with me looking at them after the photoshoot has ended. But then I zoom in on her smile. It's slightly mischievous, like forever, and the corners of her lips are slightly lifted, amused.

For a moment I feel so special again, because yes everyone including me will see her pictures once she prints them out as a part of her project, but on those pictures she won't be smiling like this. She won't be smiling at me.

Her hair will be lifted in a tidy ponytail, instead of her marigold like locks fighting the wind and gravity. Her flowy shirt will be 'fixed' so it covers her tattoo that is peaking out on my picture, ink tickling her shoulder imitating the phoenix's wings.

They won't see the fire in her eyes or the red eyeshadow, because she wanted the photo's message to turn out more serious and wiped the red off, along with the fire. Though the fire sparked here and there when I've made a joke or put her hand exactly where I meant to when I've said "maybe lift your hand like this", before releasing the clicking sound after pushing the button on her screen.

They'll notice her nails since later her fingers weren't tucked in the back pockets of her jeans like they are in my picture, but they won't remember them. They won't remember the small kiss she gave my arm when she accidentally scratched it with them.

They won't look at the mark and suffocate in giggles and sighs like I did now.

I place my laptop back onto its spot and strut back to my room.

I open the same page.

Isn't it weird,

How some questions are always left unanswered,

Or told untruthfully.

If I had three wishes right now,

One would be stupidly spent,

Including her name,

Not misusing it.

It would be mentioned like a promise,

Like a silent secret,

That we'd share.

Funnily I'd probably ask for her permission to enter her thoughts,

Instead of simply asking her,

Whether she loves me or not.

But no one would say that as a wish.

Outloud.

I lay back on my bed and tug on my hair.

Sometimes she depresses me to the point I wish never to have met her, since she is like a literal drug, being the only one giving me the feeling of being that high when she does things, and getting me at my lowest when she stops.

But where would I be, really, without the highs.

Like a true drug addict I wouldn't willingly give her up, and like heroin coursing through my body, her words inspire all my poems, though she is more than a muse. She isn't a brief inspiration, nor a life long portrait that stays in my hallways for as long as I don't stop writing. She's the in between.

She's the wind that moves my hair through the window, stopping shortly. Then also her laughs play the role of a ferocious storm that blows away an entire forest of my mind.

Her body is always on pictures and on the tattoos embedded deeply in my brain, but her mind insists on being a more serious actress, a muse that is harder to catch, constantly reinventing parts of itself, building and drawing new ones, like the feeling of high will never end.

Perhaps I'd be stupid enough to misuse my second wish too, because if the little fish peaking out of water asked, its golden scales seemingly as eager to find out, sparkling in the sun, mimicking her hair, what is she, of the above? The drug, the muse, the suffer, the antidote, I wouldn't have the answer. The fish would stun me, wisely luring me to use another wish on the girl too, so that the swimming creature doesn't have a sickness to cure, or people to hurt, just a mind to explore and its thoughts bring to another.

In my hopelessness I turn my head to stare at the wall, where in small letters there is written: And you? What would you do for love?

I breathe out a laugh at the reference we once wrote on the wall, the words being shaky from her laughing and my nervousness. Probably. In the next moment I am sure I would be stupid enough to use my third wish on her. Because the fish doesnt give you days to decide, you have a moment, and even if you want to put on silver armor and save the world, you will pull notes out of the silver colored notebook, and make your wishes according to the name hiding amongst all the capital letters.

One poem of mine I know by heart, living on a page that has the most smudges and is thinned out, since I've read it so many times, goes like this:

heart of gold,

your name beholds,

along with Your body,

and it's on the tip of my tonguE.

a ghOst of love,

passes by every time,

your haNd's in mine,

kissing away the time,

when we couldn't do thAt.

was it because we were young,

or scared,

or was it forbidden,

not verbally,

but in the air,

where the transparent creatures now float forever.

giving us the love we always deserved,

but never got,

though was it us,

or was it them,

who took it too far,

away.

The day she told me the meaning of her name, I made it the first line of my favourite poem, thinking her existence isn't even real.

The ghosts from the mentioned song are probably laughing, having seen so many desperate hearts like mine.

Then maybe they are smiling, slightly hoping, or knowing that's how she, or at least someone will feel about me, if not this, then some other time.

I don't want the other time.