Dear boy on the bus
You had to sit beside me, today of all days
My hair a mess
Bundled up in a black winter jacket
Acne and tired eyes
It had to be today of all days, didn't it

Dear boy on the bus,
From my peripheral vision I saw a golden mop of hair, which I find to be attractive on the male species
I’d call you an angel, but  I don’t even know if you were attractive
I’d glance over at you from time to time, only because I was afraid you’d notice

Dear boy on the bus,
I don’t know whether or not to call you a boy or a man,
Because at this age, we’re younger than we look but older than we feel

Dear boy on the bus,
they say age is just a number, but it’s also just a word,
But I’d feel weird if you were younger than me all the same

Dear boy on the bus,
Do you realize how loud your music was playing? Apparently not, since it lulled you to sleep
Even if it was a few decibels lower, heavy metal isn't what comes to mind when I think of ‘lullabies’
I stole glances at you and your sleeping face, praying slightly that the bus would do a wide enough turn so that your head would sort of rest against my shoulder, even though I’m a lot shorter than you

Dear boy on the bus,
You could sit anywhere else after a few stops. I might have been a little hurt if you moved, but it’s normal.
So why didn't you?

Dear boy on the bus,
With bags on my lap, I felt closed in: I was too afraid to move, too afraid to touch you—I felt my arm brush against your sweater through my jacket and my stomach did somersaults
It’s not that I didn't want to touch you, but I didn't want sparks to be sent through my body—my mind was already going wild with the many scenarios playing in my head as we sat there.

Dear boy on the bus,
My heart was shivering as my stop got closer
I didn't want to leave before you did
I imagined you didn't want me to leave either

Dear boy on the bus,
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to text a friend about you, but I was afraid you’d notice.
I was thinking of pulling out my phone to write about you—would you think me a poet? Or a creep?

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish you said something

Dear boy on the bus,
I wish I said something

Dear boy on the bus,
When my stop came and we awkwardly got up, I wonder if you thought my sheepish smile meant something, or anything at all.

I’m not sure
But I feel like bridging the gap between you just to stand on the edge of it and jump off
But jumping off of it is something I want and don’t want to do
But you’re so different and I’m so tired
And we’re both bored kids during lonely winter nights
They call it ‘summer love’
But except for summer holidays and warm weather, there’s not much I enjoy about it
It’s odd, but I've never been drawn to the cold weather until this year
Even though the sweetest things have happened when snowflakes quietly blanket everything
Hushing the world to stop and rest
Weighing down the boughs of evergreens ever so slightly
When houses smell of gingerbread and vanilla and the shadows of candlelight flickers on the wall
It’s always been a romantic season, even if the weather outside is frightful
But it reminds me of the boy with the camera in his hands, taking pictures of everything so it wouldn't feel like we were miles away
And that boy with the camera is still just miles away
And the photographs are just photographs, and those have stopped for about a year or more
I’m trying to be patient, trying to calm this heart of mine
Because it’s fickle, and although it enjoys the glitter of the Christmas season
It shivers in the winter and will snuggle up to anyone except to me

I look at my hands, and I stretch my fingertips out before me
Twist and turn my wrist to inspect them
See the slender digits flex and bend to my will
Run my thumb along the crescent moons of my nails in validation:
They are sharp now, sharp enough to be instruments as I drum them against a desk
Sharp enough to be weapons
Eczema, believe it or not, is torture
I look at my hands; see little constellations of bruises and cuts
I trace the braille across my wrist, unable to read something I’ve never been accustomed to, despite it being an almost constant companion
It comes and goes like a fair-weather friend and always arrives when it is never wanted
In summer, when temperatures climb up buildings and trees
I find myself not just allergic to pollen, but to myself
In winter, I peel off small bits of layers to reach for places that won’t mind the cold as much
Reaching and searching quick as chilled air finds a break in the defenses
You asked me what was wrong; that if I was sad I could do whatever I wanted, even towards you
I would never hurt you
My anger, my sadness, is directed towards myself
I want to feel the rush of hurling myself at walls
Want to feel the thud of skin against bone against hollow plaster and wooden frame
I want to feel nails run down fabric; soft, thin and fragile
Want to see them tear things apart, see feathers spill out or paint chip, all jagged and frantic
I want this and I don’t want this
I glide nails across skin, across rashes along my hand
I find myself stagnant as my joints itch for action

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But I admit, there’s something about the way the bird in my chest starts to sing your name and I pray you can’t hear it with every step I take away from you.

Instead of meeting yours, my eyes wander away together, because they have better things to do than have pointless conversations— I shush them and push them slowly towards you, because those “pointless conversations” are the only ones we have

There’s nothing really remotely handsome about you. In fact, I can see your mother whenever I look at you: the long bridge of your nose, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you were a total momma’s boy, but I remember hearing of adventures with your father—skiing, hiking, camping—all rugged outdoors-y activities that I could only dream of doing or even enjoying.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But there’s something about the way you touched my hand briefly that made my ears burn—perhaps you were a lit candle, and I was an ice sculpture of nothing in particular, so when we touched I cried out in pain, but I wanted to bring you closer

There’s this tone in your voice when we talk, and it speaks nothing of love at all—not for me, or anyone in the room. You talk to me as you would a child, a young girl, your sister’s best friend—and I am all of that. I should learn to be content with that

I remember hearing about a girl in your life, and I don’t think I knew what to feel. I shared in with sisters’ and your mother’s teasing whispers about her, in their hushed laughter. I didn't share what another part of me felt—something strange and twisty, like licorice, and no matter how long you chewed on it, it never got smaller, never disappeared, but it did manage to leave a strange taste in your mouth.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But nothing stopped me from going up to my sister last night to tell her: “I think I have a problem.” I like to think of myself as “reasonable”, but no matter what I thought, I couldn't reason with myself. I couldn't find the exact moment, the exact word, and the exact reason for why I felt this about you.

We've known each other since your sister and I were small. Even then, I avoided you, and you did the same. There was nothing we could talk about—you were into sports and I was into dolls. I’d hide away with your sister in our imaginary lands, and you were probably at hockey practice, but you were the first boy I've talked to and that scared me.

What am I to you, anyway? I've been told I was a part of the family…do you think so too? Do you follow the unspoken rules like I’m desperately trying to? Do you wonder, at all? I try to block you out of my thoughts, push you away as if you were like vegetables on my plate. There’s nothing about you, logically speaking, that should make me think about you.

I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you. So why is this happening?

When you feel no one loves you I wouldn’t know of it at first
You’ll feel an inexplicable pull towards your bedroom and find yourself swallowed up like Jonah under fresh new blankets, toppling over a pile of clean laundry that you forgot to put away
You’ll curl up into a little ball and melt away from the hot tears streaming down your face, holding back choked sobs behind your sweet, little mouth
Your eyes, puffy and red, close just enough to make you sleepy
And even though dinner is on the table, you won’t be there
And I’ll make my way upstairs to find your blankets rise and fall slowly, only to whisper that you are my favourite song in the whole world, and I love you.
Whether you heard it or not I’ll never know
But you did come downstairs for dessert

In school they teach you about arithmetic, but they never taught me how to divide my attention between work and play,
to add up the number of times you took my breath away or the number of times you've made me cry,
To subtract the times I've thought of you or to multiply the times I've tried to be content with that.

While listening to the radio on the bus ride home, I've realized late in my life that love is not as simple as a verse chorus verse. It takes more than one than one person to write a song, and there are more parts to a song than the lyrics

And at night I wonder if the stars shine brighter for you now that I'm gone, or maybe they sparkle just like they always did, or if there's a girl you know who knows the story of a snail who loved a sunflower too much, but slowly inched away

Hands are wonderful but fragile, used to break and to mend and to hold and to push
Mine are constantly reaching for something but my fingertips always brush against you. I never know whether to pull you close or to push you away.

In school they teach you about geography and history, but all I've learned about was the places I wanted to travel with you, of the weather, and whether we'd brace the storm together or not.
Rather than a history, I wanted to know yours: I wanted to see your future, and what it would hold for you, and whether or not I was a part of it.

I was thinking about how you were something I've unearthed, and how you were some kind of treasure that had been left hidden for a long long time, but maybe you were, in a way, like Pandora's Box with a Pharaoh's curse and I've started to avoid mirrors for quite some time afterward because I knew I would hate what was looking back at me.

In school they teach you of science, but they never taught me of how unstable we were in our individual elements and when combined we could have been perfect, except when put under pressure.
When ignited, you stole my electrons which would make you more negative and I positively unable to talk.

I didn't think I'd think about you, years from now. How much have you changed? How much have I changed?

In school they teach you of English, of grammar, and I've learned that every word in the English language cannot even define what this is that I feel for you.
You could call it love, I could call it love.
But is it 'te amo' or 'te quiero' ?

The constructs and the boundaries we place on words, on feelings, reminds me of the walls I built when you left, with each memory of you to the number of bricks I stack a ration of 1:2; one to keep you out and one to keep me in.

What's the probability of my failure in trying?
Could I move somewhere new and uncharted? Where the weather is stable? Or even unstable?
Rewrite my own history book, but without you?
Would it burn me to try again? Would the chemistry work?
School has taught me many things, but it didn't prepare me for you.

My morning glory
Would be to wake up beside you
Just as the sun stretches and yawns,
Its arms reaching past blanketed mountains to brush the sleep away from your eyes
A peaceful surrender and a lone fanfare from the horns and sirens below,
The roads ever branching,
Taking roots in cities and towns away from where we are.
The world is awake before us, but my whole world wakes up to your open eyes
And past them, I see universes that I will never be a part of.
We are magic, we are as light as fragments of matter drifting through strings of sunshine
And in this moment, although we are small, we exist.

I think the only reason why I still love you is because you were the only man who reminded me of my father.
It’s weird to think that in this world that we live in, one with no need for the likes of you in the field of Psychology,
It's weird to think that, in a way, maybe you were right about something.

1.
She asked him what he would’ve called her
And he said he would’ve called her a tyrant
And she would ask why
And he would say something like:
I have loved you with all my heart, my soul, my being
And all you did was lock me up in your attic to hide me from the light, starved me of your love that I felt I would go crazy
You tossed me off a cliff just to watch me climb back up and push me off again
You made me move mountains, oceans, and the position of stars acountless amount of times
And what was more, I loved you all the same
You loved me she asked
He said yes, because I was afraid of you
Afraid of me or afraid about what you would do if I was gone she asked
Both he replied

2.
She looked back at him
Her dark eyes staring
So cold and bottomless, but full of warmth like a dark blanket
She reminded him of Ivan the Terrible, with his notorious impulse and rage
And he grew afraid
But instead of yelling, she shook her head
It was nothing like that she replied
It was not like I wanted to hurt you
But I was hurting too
I was afraid of you
Afraid of me he asked
Yes she replied
I wanted to keep you all for myself and I know you hated me
But I didn't hate you, he replied, I hated what you are when the sun goes down, what you are behind closed doors.
But that is still me, she claimed
Yes, that is still you, he agreed
I saw your eyes meeting hers’ and in that moment I knew I would lose you
You did lose me, he stated
I did lose you, she whispered
She was safer, less prone to anger
You became so much a part of me that if you left I would have nothing left
But you knew I loved you he asked
Yes she said
I knew

And to me you were a flower that I wanted to press between the pages of my heart
So that I could keep you forever and so your memory would not be too far away
Yet each time I opened up to find you, you became more delicate and deader than the moment I plucked you
It horrified me to know I was that sort of person to ruin something so alive

She asked him what he would’ve called her
And he said he would’ve called her a tyrant
And she would ask why
And he would say something like:
I have loved you with all my heart, my soul, my being
And all you did was lock me up in your attic and starved me to death and when you felt I had enough you would give me food
You tossed me off a cliff just to watch me climb back up and push me off again
You made me move mountains, oceans, the position of stars countless amount of times
And what was more, I loved you all the same
You loved me she asked
He said yes, because I was afraid of you
Afraid of me or afraid about what you would do if I was gone she asked
Both he replied

My heart is the engine that willed the bus to move
Racing down the road until I get to you

I know you’re happy by the way you smile
But every night when you think I’m asleep I can hear you sobbing quietly behind a locked bathroom door, telling me you’re “exhausted from work” or you’re on your “time of the month”, and you’ll “be out soon” so I should just “go to bed”

I know you’re happy by the way you smile
But when I look through old photos of you, your eyes used to smile too; now they seem to look at walls, out windows, at ceilings, and floors, as if you’re trying to find a way to escape. You don’t look frightened, but you do look lost, because walls and windows and ceilings and floors have nothing for you.

I know you’re happy by the way you smile
But I haven't seen it since.

Hey darling, my heart whispered to yours, hey darling, why are you so sad?
***, your heart replied, I’m sad because you've made me this way;
I’m sad because I wasn't good enough,
I’m sad because we’re so far away that I can’t even hear your voice without straining my ears
I’m sad because although I know I can make you happy, I don’t
I’m sad because my talents weren't enough to make you stay
I’m sad because we’re so far away that my arms hurt from trying to reach you, from working so hard to fix a broken car so I can see you
So I can know what it’s like to hold your small hands in mine,
So I can feel myself break when I see your smile outside of a computer screen for the first
But it’s ok, because that’s what it’s like to love someone
But it isn't ok that you hurt, is it, I reply
No, you reply, no it isn't.

On the contrary, Mary, you’re quite scary rather than sweet
With sad eyes to hide your lies
That takes my faint heart by surprise
Unknowingly, perhaps, you act as prey
To every harsh thing that I say,
When we know,at the end of the day,
That what I’ve said is true
You lose my senses through your smile, your elegance and simple style
And you make me want to stay a while as I lose myself in you
Your hair, your face,
My saving grace
I know not what to do
But break and replace the bond we’ve made
And sever us in two

I’ve been told that I revisit you too often
As if you were my favourite place in the whole world
But the truth is you are just an old abandoned home,
With loose floorboards and spider webs and too dangerous to enter, even if the spiders are no longer there
So instead I walk around the premise and think of the first time you’ve kissed me
Or said my hair was like starlight
Or when you made me cry over something small and stupid that I can’t even remember what it was
And then I pack up
and drive home

In school they teach you about arithmetic, but they never taught me how to divide my attention between work and play,
to add up the number of times you took my breath away or the number of times you've made me cry,
To subtract the times I've thought of you or to multiply the times I've tried to be content with that.
While listening to the radio on the bus ride home, I've realized late in my life that love is not as simple as a verse chorus verse. It takes more than one than one person to write a song, and there are more arts to a song than the lyrics
And at night I wonder if the stars shine brighter for you now that I'm gone, or maybe they sparkle just like they always did, or if there's a girl you know who knows the story of a snail who loved a sunflower too much, but slowly inched away
Hands are wonderful but fragile, used to break and to mend and to hold and to push
Mine are constantly reaching for something but my fingertips always brush against you. I never know whether to pull you close or to push you away.
In school they each you about geography and history, but all I've learned about was the places I wanted to travel with you, of the weather, and whether we'd brace the storm together or not.
Rather than a history, I wanted to know yours: I wanted to see your future, and what it would hold for you, and whether or not I was a part of it.