I'm not big with romance.
But I get the feeling
that for some reason,
it's going to be harder than I thought it was,
getting over you.
Maybe it's because you thought that my independence,
my wild hair and ***** and sharp edges
were my most endearing qualities.
Maybe it's because your hands
are so big
that I've got no problem imagining them
holding my heart.
Maybe it's because the idea of you
comforts me
and brings me back down from the busyness
holding my mind.
...and even though it's obvious that you're still figuring yourself out,
and you have the hardest time trying to figure me out,
you've figured me out.
I'm not nearly as complicated as I'd like to think.
You've got this sturdiness about your soul,
that makes me want to lean into it and just be.
Like you could wrap your arms around me,
and, simply, that would be fine.
So, where are you?
Because the funny thing is,
we can't hold a conversation,
or maintain eye contact.
You're immature and rash,
and so am I.
All we ever do is argue,
vocal sparring, as it were,
never breaking the layer
into deeper conversation.
But I miss the way I'd catch you,
giving me this look
of confused admiration,
of bewilderment,
of exasperation,
of happiness.
Do you miss the chance we had,
as much as I do?