Seventh grade

Everyday I think of him.
The way he walks
And the way he talks.
Every day I dream of him.
I wish he was mine again.
His long brown hair,
Pulled tight against his head.
His band t-shirts
That only he would wear.
I think of him.
As I walk into class everyday.
English is hell this I can say.
It’s seventh grade.
Semester two.
I’m lost and confused.
And I don’t know what to do.