I sincerely hope that you aren't reading the things
I've been writing about you, praying that the
one poem of mine you read about someone else
is the only time you've come here looking.

Because this, this is my soul ripped open and
weeping before God and everybody,
and the things I say here about you
would be better heard spoken to you aloud.

I don't want to fall in love with you, can't come
so far wrapped up in my own past and find
you waiting at the end of it, wanting to explore
secret paths in the woods and build castles in the sand.

I'm not the kind of person that believes in happily
ever after anymore, gave up on an inclusive life,
gave up on bliss, and yet here you are dancing
across my mind, the memory of us together that night.

I'm not there yet, not quite in love with you, not to
the point of me taking sustenance just from your smile,
but I'm quickly on my way I'm sure, otherwise I
wouldn't be so concerned with how many times I use
the I word instead of the You word when we talk.