He touches My hair All the time, Plays with the Edges and Fragments, And sometimes reminds me that "I can braid, You know." Sometimes he does.
Sometimes he mimics me In History class From across the room, And he laughs at all my jokes, Even when they aren't funny, Just Stupid.
And occasionally, When I'm sitting in my little niche Between his desk And Ellie's, Right on the cold tile, He'll attach his forehead to mine And just look at me. Sometimes he'll whisper, "Nose," And point to it, And I just giggle And break the stare.
I don't even think he feels it, The wishing to always be near him, To have his fingers in my hair All the time, And for his laugh to be My soundtrack.
I don't think That when he stares into my eyes He wants to kiss me As bad As I want To kiss Him.