She's every thought you ever shunned out of horrid curiosity, every flower that you couldn't bear to pick up because you were unsure if it had thorns, and every book
you've ever wanted to live in
bathe in ink and paper and drown in words
just like I want to drown in her mind
but I can barely skim the surface, barely
penetrate the depths,
and I guess my thoughts aren't heavy enough to carry me to the bottom.
Her fingers are cold and timid -- the way the first snowfall flurries down, unhurried and forlorn -- if they ever traced my skin I'd get more than frostbite, but
chills are okay as long as they stem from a place
that makes goosebumps a sign of anticipation
and not fear --
but I fear the way this makes me feel and I can feel so much already --
it bursts through my ribcage stronger than a heartbeat.
The eyes she has -- I can't tell if they're more full than mine, full of light and rapturing blue, or less full, empty like oblivion, and I just look and think and die and suddenly -- it's like she was never there,
she smiles and looks my way, but it's not a true smile,
not the kind so sweet that it will make your teeth ache,
but the kind of smile that's half-hearted like a shy blossom in spring or a polite stranger in an elevator on your way to a tenth floor cubicle, but ******, I'm not a stranger, --
I'm just trying to find the reason
why all of her "hello"s sound like goodbyes.
She doesn't text back either.