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the star student of yuumei university shouldn't be skipping classes
for you, he'll make an exception, and himself promise it is the last time he lets that end-of-summer smile
pull him away from what really matters
what really matters?
late clouds carefully siphoning off the amount of october sunlight they deem appropriate for the occasion and the riverbank with as much ocean breeze as we can get so close to city center and i'm standing still because i think you might be the new center of my life and i am not yours
additionally, the star student of yuumei university shouldn't be assisting you in the act of stealing. but in his defense (and he's run this through many times now): this is the only way so far i've managed to get in between your legs.
if a cherry tree only belonged to where it was rooted its spindly branches would know better than to reach over the stone wall at just the right height of you stacked on my shoulders
well, there was nothing much to do in English class anyway. there, someone might notice me staring at you.
good thing you never do.
hey, if you hear a muffled, dirty thumping thing, that's me trying not to tell you. you can ignore it, giving attention will only make it worse.
good thing that's all you seem to know how to do.
you pop the stem into your mouth.
if you can tie it in a knot then you're a good kisser, you tell me, like the idea of your tongue and my knees hitting the floor isn't eternally linked in my mind
your teeth and your tongue working around the thing and then it's in a neat, tight knot between your thumb and forefinger. gloves keep the pads of your fingers from becoming too calloused at the place where you pinch the arrow
hold the string with your right hand and grip the bow in your left. feet as far apart as the bow is tall. notch the arrow and don't forget to steady your breathing. lift it above your head and slowly bring it down whilst pulling it back, further, and further, the shape you'd make of my spine if i had my way
anticipation is what counts here. i'll remind myself that kyuudo isn't about hitting the mark in the space it takes you to sight down the shaft
ergo, your loosed arrow could stick itself into any part of my body and you'll still have struck my heart.
remember, asougi: it isn't about aim.
finally, silence from the incessant beating. you've done me a great service, partner.
you, who are the cause of such reckless impulses to throw everything i was born for away, merely for the chance to hold you. you need to lead me away from this, take me to your bright southern hometown and show me how skilled you are with your hands around a different shaft
we're just classmates, we're just friends, i'm just enamored with everything about you
ever since i've known you i've wanted to be less and less myself
so that the awe in your eyes over a warm cup of sake and embellished tales of sword training will ache less.
how can anything ache less than the fact that i'm now jealous of yumi bows and cherry stems and my own hachimaki and chopsticks and pens and sake cups
i want to pin you to the dojo floor after a tournament, trade those practiced steps for praise and press into you all my love. would you show me awe then?
remember, naruhodou: you're still expected to hit the target.
love of the kind that threatens to spill over the rim when i pour for you--you've practiced all your life to astound me, so it figures you'd be born a season prior
still i'll come every time you call, even if you think you aren't worth watching. you'll forgive me, partner, as much as i support your training, the idea of getting to stare at you for free
is what really makes me reschedule my court appearance that week.
one day we'll laugh about that together, i'm sure.
i take the stem from you and let it rest on my palm, feeling the full weight of it
in my periphery, you sit up straight: you're prouder than those men of tradition who expect us to live only in the past, and you have more reason to be, too.
to have you and surrender nothing would be a dream
to have you take my hand, sticky at the fingertips with juice, and
bare my soul
bear my soul
if i don't move, or breathe, or continue forward, i can remain always in the taut pull of your bowstring and the sun will set and rise and we will be ever where we started
notch my soul, draw, sight, and shoot. propel us forward; a shame we live in a time of such progress. weather it with me?
let's carve a path and only leave cherry pits in our wake.