You talk to me like I am stupid.
And somedays I worry that I am.
And sometimes I wish that my brain
would stop being over active
and simply let me concentrate
on important things
like the future,
and exams,
instead of convincing myself that you
are the only thing I have ever worked towards,
as I sit and trace over the lines
which form the curve of your lips
and work out exactly what light I would use
to suit the colour of your skin
and think about all the words I could use in
imaginary conversations
with you.
Maybe I am as clueless
as you make me out to be.