The Most Beautiful Girl

You don't look in the mirror that morning.
You yank your brush through your hair and put it up.
You pull on whatever shirt is closest to you as you run out of your bedroom and downstairs.
You don't care, because when he holds you, you're the most beautiful girl in the world.

A block and B block pass agonizingly slowly.
The first half of C-block is hardly bearable.
Lunchtime comes and you get to just sit with him at the piano.
He's so gorgeous. You're the luckiest girl in the world.

You stay beside him for the remainder of C-block.
The two of you hold hands, not sitting in actual chairs, but sitting on the steps of the band room.
You kiss his cheek every once in a while and he kisses your hand.
He's sweet. He treats you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

The end of the day comes around (finally) and you find yourself back in the music room with him.
He holds your hand and you smile and you giggle and he hugs you.
He kisses your lips softly, sweetly, and you're the happiest girl in the world.
You are the luckiest, happiest, most beautiful girl in the world.

He wraps his arms around you from behind
And he whispers words of love into your ear
And by some chance, you happen to catch your reflections in the glass of the practice room door.
You are no longer the most beautiful girl in the world.

You see how mismatched you two are.
He's tall and brawny with a mature, gorgeous face.
You're short and round with acne and flyaway hair.
He is the most handsome boy in the world. You are nothing compared to him.