I'm not going to write about you in my journal
Because unfortunately I feel that that form of confession tends to backfire dramatically and leave me jinxed.
It's like those ink-stained secrets wrapped up in leather counteract the decadent visions I drift to sleep with at night
And so,
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
You see, I care about the concept of you far too deeply to chance our lingering moments on teenage whimsical compulsions to gush in secrecy
About the way your words shifted my anchored soul,
About the flooding in my heart when you bared yours,
About the mass amounts of internal riots
(The butterflies doth protest)
Of your pragmatic, flirtatious adequacy
Nay, mastery.
No
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For fear of risking those moments of substance:
Secret-swapping
Joke-exchanging
Soul-bearing times where I wanted nothing more than to jump eight hours ahead so that I could see the undigitized blue of your eyes and feel the ends of my nerves explode off my skin like the Fourth of July.
How is it
That physical proximity has nothing to do with the closeness we seem to share?
I feel
Compelled
by some unexplainable piece of mind to insist and hope and wish that
Like you once told me under volumes of conversation,
We are connected.
I don't want to waste any of this enigmatic familiarity and sudden interdependency
On matters of my own private indulgence
And for this,
I'm not going to write about you in my journal
For you say that you are Atheist
But I know that you meant it when you told me
Your soul knows mine.
It came from the heart. My obsessive, infatuated heart.