I'm failing rather miserably
at being ambivalent
about you

there's a kind of hangover
that starts with grey days
and cold nights

but there's a certain clarity
to biting air and grey skies
with snow on the wind

It's been three years
since I was madly infatuated with you
with your hair (curly, long, dark)
your freckles (sprinkled across your face)
your nose (straight-bridged, strong)
your eyes (dark, warm)
your lips (smiling, laughing)
your voice (like a river, like molasses)

summer camp isn't the best time
to fall for a girl
for me
(and god, the secret had to stay that way)

but after three years
you're the only person from that summer
I still have on facebook

so it's been three years
since I was madly infatuated with you
(but if you wanted
I would be
still)

Even in the middle of them
it's hard to believe that
clouds aren't made of something solid
and soft

it's always some kind of perfection outside
(the perfect storm,
the perfect blue,
the perfect colour leaves,
the perfect temperature)

and yet
it's midterm season

It's not that I've been unproductive
it's that there are things I should be doing
other than write about you

Writing about you
is like adding cinnamon to my food

it seems to happen
whether I plan to or not

like sleepy mornings with cold feet and warm bowls
of your smile,
like sweetness and spice with just a hint
of the smell of your sweater,
like dessert with a dusting
of the lines around your eyes
and your mouth

(or maybe
I just really like the taste of you
on my tongue)