Mar 2017
I
they say you give flowers on a whim.
on a regular day, i would message you
pictures of flowers i’d want
to come from your own hands.
but you stand on a platform.
i sit still on a chair
waiting for your orders.
you are different from a regular tuesday.
your usual pink button downs,
they’re now just a pink shirt.
you look just like us.
stepping out from the door after i called you,
the sun suddenly shone brighter.
it illuminated your distressed jeans,
glaring glasses,
flawed face,
awkward posture.
you do not greet me with a pick-up line;
but i can’t help but smile.
oh, how easy is it to get you to come?
how easy can i have you?
II*
secrets can be made in public.
we’d talk for a few more minutes,
sitting down on the steps.
we refuse to call it school.
we are immoral.
until you complain about the heat
creeping up your skin
the brighter sun feeling you. you hate it.
i’d take the blame if it was for the sun
only to make you stay.
your bag now hangs on your right shoulder.
you look back at me to see if i follow.
i grab your wrist,
breaking every rule there is.
you continue to walk,
not minding what’s pulling you back.
when we get to the emergency stairwell,
your right hand grasps the handrail,
and my hands are still on your left wrist.
i pull harder now.
stay.
you put more force to walking up.
my hands slip from your wrist to your hand.
i am taken aback, but
i hold it,
tighter.
it’s not supposed to be like this.
but if you give flowers like this,
it is what it is.
they say you give flowers on a whim.
on a regular day, i would message you
pictures of flowers i’d want
to come from your own hands.
but you stand on a platform.
i sit still on a chair
waiting for your orders.
you are different from a regular tuesday.
your usual pink button downs,
they’re now just a pink shirt.
you look just like us.
stepping out from the door after i called you,
the sun suddenly shone brighter.
it illuminated your distressed jeans,
glaring glasses,
flawed face,
awkward posture.
you do not greet me with a pick-up line;
but i can’t help but smile.
oh, how easy is it to get you to come?
how easy can i have you?
II*
secrets can be made in public.
we’d talk for a few more minutes,
sitting down on the steps.
we refuse to call it school.
we are immoral.
until you complain about the heat
creeping up your skin
the brighter sun feeling you. you hate it.
i’d take the blame if it was for the sun
only to make you stay.
your bag now hangs on your right shoulder.
you look back at me to see if i follow.
i grab your wrist,
breaking every rule there is.
you continue to walk,
not minding what’s pulling you back.
when we get to the emergency stairwell,
your right hand grasps the handrail,
and my hands are still on your left wrist.
i pull harder now.
stay.
you put more force to walking up.
my hands slip from your wrist to your hand.
i am taken aback, but
i hold it,
tighter.
it’s not supposed to be like this.
but if you give flowers like this,
it is what it is.
written for a confessional collection of poems for our literature classes.
