i’m only seventeen,
i don’t know anything.

but i know i miss you.

hey love,
i know you’re only gonna up there for a little while,
but i’ve been missing you this whole time.
i keep thinking about you in the clouds,
somewhere between here and there,
and how even the sky feels a little quieter
when you’re not around.
how far are you away from me now,
at this moment?
i hope vacation is good to you,
but not too good.
i want you to come back.
i miss you already.

you’re in the sky,
and i’m still here,
counting clouds
and minutes
until you land safely,
until you message me back,
and feel, again,
like the world makes sense.

green means go
but i hesitate.
because every green light
turns yellow eventually,
and i’ve learned to fear
what’s coming.

it’s not really about driving.
it’s just,
every time life feels good,
i’m already scared
of losing it.

i poeticize too much.
a glance becomes a story,
a pause becomes a metaphor.
you say “hi”
and suddenly i’m writing about the way
your voice cuts through the noise in my chest.

i turn us into sonnets
before we’ve even lived the scene.
your hand brushes mine
and it’s a whole stanza
about skin and gravity
and how maybe the universe
meant for this moment to happen.

you say “i didn’t sleep much last night,”
and i think:
the moon must’ve been jealous
of how bright you were yesterday.
i poeticize.
because the truth,
as it stands,
feels too raw.
too terrifying.
too good.

so i cover it in metaphors
and rhyme it with prettier pain
until it sounds like a poem
instead of a prayer.
and maybe that’s my way
of saying
i love you.

not in a loud, bright way.
but in the margins of notebooks,
in lyrics i never share,
in every sentence i twist
just to feel closer to you.

i poeticize
because plain words
can’t hold you.
but maybe
poetry can.
maybe i can learn to, too.