The corridors all smelt like hairspray
not her perfume, even as she passed
so he pretended it was her hairspray
(not that she used it)
and he sat next to her in history lessons
clammily holding his lighter under the desk.
Sometimes he wanted to start a fire,
just in case she hadn’t noticed
the way he watched her,
but he never flicked it open.
He wanted to hold her hand,
twirl her around the classroom
failing that, he’d be John or Paul
and sing to her, clap everytime she smiled.
At the school disco, he asked her to dance
she didn’t like early Beatles songs
but he twirled her anyway, just that once,
almost kissed her cheek, but for
his sweaty fingers stumbling into his pockets
as she finished and slow-danced with another
mouthed along to Blondie in an older boy’s ear
and he remembered calling her, getting the wrong number.