never mix a poet and an artist.
he whispered to me, his words mix like
paint in his head to form a beautiful
sunrise.
"two pretentious people can never
get their way,
we're two busy expecting the other
person to make a move".
i'm too scared to let him get close,
i'll write about him,
i won't be able to forget about him,
and all i want to do is act reckless
at night and pretend
i'm good in the morning.
i wonder what games i'm playing this time.
maybe i wanted to kiss him,
maybe i didn't.
my brain can't make it's mind up.
i'm fickle.
all i know is an emotion in the moment,
and i tug on it,
i won't let it go.
if i can feel anything at all,
let me feel it.
so i'll play with his hands and he'll shake
his head and complain i never know
what i want,
and our heads lean in and i tell myself
i won't kiss him,
and something twists in my stomach,
and i tug, i tug.