And I didn't even mention that the class I was going to take, "Elective Greek Tragedy" turned out to be a class in reading greek plays in (drumroll) ancient greek. So, I'd have to be fluent in that. Which I am not.
So, after dropping that course like a hot potato, I'm now taking a writing course that seems to be easy, but I'm going to work my ass off anyway because I want a 4.0 this semester.
And now, I want to write. So I'll spare the friend's list the burden and cut it away.
untitlted: in springtime
quick warning: un-beta'd
She's like the summer only that's a metaphor he's used too much so he'll say she's like the spring in full bloom, pouting and ripe and he thinks of sweet showers and hot winds and he's not going to concentrate if he keeps this momentum.
There's a sweet pout like cherry blossoms falling down and it's a really good idea to reach closer and pluck out the fair pink (nearly white, a purer, more vibrant color than he's ever known)petals from soft strands that are warmed by the golden dashes of the sun playing down on them like a middling adult watchful of its children, yet impassive in their actions.
It's like a green flush of life, it's earth tones colored in petals, it's magnificient...he'd go on, but he's losing track of time, of place, in fact, he's so distracted, he hasn't heard a word she said.
Her voice dances like joy over a swept field of blades softer than sun-soaked skin, a complextion he could stare at all day, but he's done that already, so he touches smooth arm, it's warm yet soft and it's a pleasent buzz, this contact, if he concentrates, her pulse beats steadily underneath.
There's a quick rise to the tempo and he hears in the distance the call of birds to one another, their cry more a musical melody than anything else.
Somehow, the ground temporarily shifts and he has to clutch her tightly in his arms or the earth will swallow her whole and she's not Persephone and he'll not let her go anywhere unless he follows.
She laughs like fair bluebells twinkling on a strand, like flickering bulbs on a vine and he wonders if that's even the right name for the flower, but it doesn't matter because that's exactly how she sounds.
He knows if he kisses her, she'll be like warm honey glazed over fresh fruit, ripe and ready to be plucked, so he only dares a quick, teasing peck, a pluck of what he needs so desperately to be sated.
Her breath is cool against his cheek and he knows that all his overwrought poetical longings won't explain a moment of this truth, the wash of rich shadow over the sun-kissed face, the slight pout to rich full lips like strawberries cooled in sugar baths, and these eyes like early leaves reborn anew with the deep augmenting flush of longer life. It's of an immortality beyond his ideas of this sweet girl, flushed in merry bursts of the first ripened blackberry, a blush staining soft cheeks without any shame, and he's simply captivated without words and he needs nothing but her, here and now.
So he kisses her long and deep, warmer than anything and it's better than everything he's imagined in her place. The leaves and flowers and the sun itself, nothing could ever compare to this.