You move me.
You move me like sunlight on the dew drops of wild flowers.
You move me like the loud rumbling of thunder.
Like an intense game of laser tag; sweating and running and chasing.
You move me like Louis Armstrong's fingers on his trumpet.
You move me like my mother smiling down at me from the kitchen table when I was six.
Like Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
Like the smooth surface of my first hand-made bowl.
You move me.
You move me like the wind in my face when the car windows are rolled down.
You move me like my first paint set.
You move me like holding my first nephew, staring up at me with his small, blue eyes.
You move me like The Ground Is Lava.
You move me like the pen on this paper,
racing to scribble down my next thought.
You move me like snapping hair ties, like broken records, like drippy nail polish.
You move me like the rain drops on my window during a violent storm.
You move me like a long, unwinding road.
You move me like holding my crying sister.
You move me like T.S. Eliot, John Green, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Neil Gaiman.
You move me like a fast swivel chair.
You move me like my first knocked-out tooth.
You move me.
You move me like my first kiss in the second grade, smiling and giggling and nodding at, "Do you want to do it again?"
You move me like your bruised fingertips.
You move me like nervous glances that are shot away when you look back at me.
Like our first hug, when I didn't want to let go.
Like my blistered feet when I snuck out and ran to see you.
Like the playful nudges when we walk rythmically side by side.
You move me like your slant rhyme.
You move me like my shaky leg.
You move me like the late nights spent looking at photos from my past.
You move me like new shoes on linoleum floors.
You move me like the purple bags under my eyes.
You move me like the first time you introduced yourself to me.
You move me like my first communion as a child; disrespecting the purpose to the practice and just wanting to down a shot of grape juice.
Like the printer that won't stop shooting out pages.
Like your tangled imagery and verse.
Like my first hat.
You move me like rushing water.
You move me like falling out bed.
You move me like when our hands accidentally brush against each other in the hallway.
You move me like refusing to give up and trying again.
You move me like the way I dream of moving you.
You move me.
Inspired by the bold, lovely Gina Loring, I was seventeen when I wrote this about a boy who I met in my creative writing class. He became my best friend.