Dec 7 | for @magpiefngrl

In the autumn of our eighth year, I learn to drown,
Ice cracking beneath me, and me kicking out,
reaching and grasping,
fingers grabbing, but I’m still sinking,
and shivering like I used to,
in my old rooms—
but this isn’t that.

It’s you and your wild eyes,
your fierce looks, and if I could just realize
how good you are for me, I’d stop—
but I know, and I don’t, 
and you keep me with you.

Just above the surface, there’s dry air,
breathable and reachable, and if I could just
catch it, I’d save myself, but I—

You’re the water, the oud-and-vetiver
steam coming from the Prefect’s Bath in December,
water condensing over browned skin, and I remember it
roiling up like a blizzard, with you in it, 
and the memories of my first kiss
still tangible and real against my mouth.

They hear us, and our eyes catch,
breaths echoing against the walls;
scattered like quills on a table,
heartbeats shattering in frozen time,
but they don’t catch us; they’re never able.

In the winter, I learn to see;
to feel the sensations of flirtation
as they drip down my spine,
ghosting like fog over frozen fingertips, and I
speak breathlessly, you
speak breathlessly, our
voices hushed and hiding, sugared like
Honeydukes chocolates,
and the promises I half-worry you’ll keep.

Every morning, I wake with fog,
clouds lowering down to suffocate us all
in our tower,
in our shared room,
where each night, I fall asleep
to the sound of your breathing,
to your eyelids fluttering,
and the novelty of a room without draughts.

In the new year, we make promises,
voices unsteady against a black sky, fireworks 
and noises drowning out the stars, but you
take my hand, 
and your fingers are cold,
icy and rough,
like you’ve sunk under water,
kicking and grasping,
and caught onto the only thing that
could bring you up to the surface.