I met a boy a few years ago.
His eyes were always searching for something lost,
but he never knew what he was looking for.
We became acquaintances,
and after a while,
dare I say,
we became friends.
He never talked much about his past,
but I was able to read his absent eyes,
the way he never made eye contact for too long,
or the way he forced himself away from anything
he might get attached to.
His eyes are always just as anxious as mine.
He is sitting right next to me now,
just as lost in the professor’s lecture as I am,
and he’s writing too,
pencil feverously scribbling whatever thoughts
cloud his mind in this moment.
It’s been four years since I met this boy,
and I have never been able to figure out his angle.
There must be something he wants,
some reason he still talks to me.
No one has stayed by my side for this long.
Could it be possible that he actually cares about me?
No, of course not,
That’s an idiotic thing to think.
But why else would he still be around me
when all I have been good for are
learning how to bake the perfect cupcakes together,
taking photos of the local wildlife,
and late night conversations about the stars?
The men I have known don’t care about those things.
The only thing that matters to them is
what’s between my legs,
and nothing else.
So could this one be different?
Could someone actually care about me?
Part 2. Still don't have a name for it.