I don't want this to be a love poem

I don't want to tell you in ink what I can't say in words. I don't want to talk about him and my emotions or the hesitation that comes with uncertainty. I don't want to say anything about our mouths or how they're never close enough.

I don't want to talk about his hands

I don't want to tell you how I've looked at them and imagined, not simply them touching me like I've longed to be touched, not them belonging solely to me, but perhaps intertwining our fingers sometimes. I don't want to say that I have the strongest abhorrence to seeing those hands touch anything else. That isn't fair. He isn't mine.

I don't want to talk about his eyes

I don't want to tell you what color they are, how they shine. I don't want to give you metaphors and compare them to landscapes much bigger and things more consuming. I don't want to give you a road map to how I last got lost in them. I am not a starry eyed romantic, even if in the right light he looks like one.

I don't want to talk about his hair

I don't want to tell you about the others running their hands through it, or how it irks me. I won't tell you about how I look away or pretend to be busy. It isn't fair to be jealous of what I fold my hands in my lap not to touch. It isn't fair. I'm being fair.

I don't want to talk about his voice

I won't tell you how it's transcended music, that if he spoke for hours I would never be bored. How it is comforting enough to lull me to sleep... me! The most distrusting person in a room at any given time! How it pulls at me to respond with words I've never offered to another soul. It isn't fair. It isn't.

I don't want to talk about him

I won't tell you how he makes me want to paint walls with his likeness,  waste time and ink and memory to write and store poems that won't see the light of day. I want to keep this close. I don't want to share what I feel with anyone. I don't want to share him with anyone.

I don't want to tell him I love him

I don't want to lose him. I don't want to share what I feel but I don't want to share him with anyone. It's a Catch 22. A lose-lose scenario. There is no happy ending. The doubt I feel is realer than the hints he leaves, it makes the fear larger than the possibility of happiness. This is the cycle, this is the life I live.

I don't want this to be a love poem.

He was a boy, she was a girl,
Do you see where this is going?

Sometimes she was a girl and sometimes he was sweet,
and sometimes they would smile at each other,
and sometimes one would smile and the other would miss it,
and sometimes neither smiled at all.

Sometimes there were others and sometimes there were not
and sometimes the others got too close,
and sometimes she got rather internally possessive,
and sometimes he raised an eyebrow questioningly but got no answer

Sometimes there was music and sometimes there was dancing,
and sometimes they danced and sometimes they didn't,
and sometimes he watched her and sometimes she giggled,
and sometimes she watched him and had to look away

Sometimes she thought in terms of forever,
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'never',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'maybe',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'enough',

(because sometimes she didn't feel good enough)
(and sometimes she worried about not being loved enough)
(and sometimes she stressed about not being pretty enough)
(and most times she didn't feel like she was enough)

But sometimes that didn't matter,
because sometimes he smiled and talked enough
and sometimes his stories were funny enough
and sometimes he showed her he cared enough

And sometime she'll realize enough is enough
and that being attractive isn't always a measure of scruff
and that when you love someone you've gotta say that stuff
because leaving is easy when you don't know enough

Have you ever loved someone so much
You could no longer look at them?
Afraid that if you did,
They'd catch the emotion in your eyes?

This isn't a poem like that, not really
There was no brush of fingertips and long sideways glances
He is not the sun, and I am not the earth
But we could be meant to be

He is not an angel, He does not fly on wings made of music and
He does not leave ****** footprints across golden landscapes
He is not the best thing to happen since sliced bread,
Hell, he's not even the best thing to happen to me

And yet,
Here I am writing yet another poem
About the way I don't let myself look at his eyes
And who needs more words about how arms feel like home
When it could just be that you haven't been held in a while

Who needs metaphors about butterflies
When in reality it's just an excuse for hesitation
A fallacy-filled reasoning to not take a chance
And some sick culmination of a lack of self worth

I can give you reasons that I love him,
I can give you clues that he loves me,
I can give you explanations, similes,
Excuses for why I've done nothing,

But why even bother with that?
What is the point of waxing poetic about a boy
Who I will never make a move on
And who will never make a move?

Spoiler Alert,
There isn't one.

It's been a little while since I tried this
self-therapy via words
that I won't share with anyone
but strangers near or far

a little while since my prose
got up from their beds
dusted off some cobwebs
and stretched their limbs

a little while since the black ichor
the ink that sometimes
bleeds out onto laptop keys
became mediocre poetry

and I get it, life's been hard
not too hard, but busy
not emotionally, but physically
and I didn't really need it

but I missed this
this little stretch of mental finesse
this warming up of metaphors
this cracking of poetic knuckles

Maybe this is what it's like to be understood.

I trusted you.

It's not much, three words
not love or endless faith proclimations
nothing more than a smile and a fond glance, maybe
it's not like we've known each other all that long

but it adds up, you know?
Simple math, add the hours to the days
and those conversations we had late at night
and get the solution:
a night where I felt like I could pour out my soul
Not much, not much,
but enough

Then shock, betrayal
I added it wrong, carried a one that wasn't there
and somehow expected more of you
My mistake, tactically stupid, I know
Who goes to war with an ally they hadn't tried in battle
with no written record of a truce?
Rookie mistake.

I won't be so foolish again

My lips weren’t made for kissing.
I fear they’ve forgotten how, most times
It’s been years
since I practiced
speaking the language
of bodies
of heated palms and parted lips
of skin on skin

Would you be willing to relearn with me?
Spend long nights with
our heads bowed over foreign text books
I promise to add
my knowledge to yours
if you promise to stroke
my spine
to whisper and gasp this language
as it comes back to me

I’ve never pulled an all-nighter
to study a subject
but I swear
that to learn this language
I’ll meet with you
every night
like there’s an exam the next day

I’ll spend hours on each sound
whole days on single words
mouthing my way
until I’ve memorized
that week’s vocabulary
then go just a bit longer,
never hurts to be sure,
just in case I’ve missed something

I’ll use my tongue as a highlighter
brightening spots
I never want to forget
with color that rises
from beneath your skin
and revisit them often
to make sure
they stick in my memory

And when we need to run through the lists
we can press our lips
together
(to make sure we’re
pronouncing it right)
We may even
have to keep it up
for hours
to get the whole list right
until we’re perfectly in sync.

Everyone knows it takes years
to learn a new language
but I’d sacrifice decades
to be fluent
in you.