Dec 2013
One day we're going to be a "real couple." I'll invite you over, and you won't have to park around the corner. Maybe it'll even be when my parents are home. Maybe I won't need to sneak out. For now, you pull into the driveway of the church on the next street—but I don't mind the walk.
One day we'll be able to go on our First Official Date. We can go to that restaurant you like downtown, and I'll borrow a dress from my best friend because none of mine will look right. I think I'll love the city even more when I'm walking through it with you. For now we're grabbing fast food on stolen time, trying to get back to school before anyone notices we're gone. We get away with it every time.
One day I'll be able to spend the night. You'll wear those neon green sweatpants and I'll laugh at you for them, but you'll probably look good anyway. We'll watch old movies, like the one where Robin Williams and young Matt Damon go see about a girl, or the one where Audrey Hepburn spends her time in jewelry stores and doesn't name her cat. For now I can only come over for enough time to watch a few episodes of a show about a paper-selling company. I like it, though. I've always loved the theme song, and your laugh is still one of the best things I've ever heard.
One day I'll get in your car and we'll spend hours driving around, exploring and seeing where we end up. I won't worry about traffic being slow or getting caught, and you'll play your music as loud as we can take it while we try to find the best places around here to get lost. For now we talk about running away on the way back to my parents' world, and I wish with all my heart that we could one day. You don't let go of my hand the entire car ride.
One day I'll be free to make my own choices, and you'll be the only option that I want. For now I'm sixteen, and you're seventeen, and we're both young and naïve, and we both make wishes at 11:11. My favorite kisses are the ones that taste like your coffee, and you laugh at me for the time last year when I only liked tea. Sometimes I'm not good at hiding how sheltered I've been growing up, but you never seem to care. You make fun of my poetry, but I keep writing it anyway. I make fun of you for being way too into weight lifting, but I agree to try it with you sometime. And there's a lot we don't really know yet—but with everything I am, I love you and I love you and I love you, and that's exactly how I know that one day we'll be able to be anything and everything we want to be.
For now that's all I can say. But "one day" is much less of a daydream and much more of a promise.
One day we'll be able to go on our First Official Date. We can go to that restaurant you like downtown, and I'll borrow a dress from my best friend because none of mine will look right. I think I'll love the city even more when I'm walking through it with you. For now we're grabbing fast food on stolen time, trying to get back to school before anyone notices we're gone. We get away with it every time.
One day I'll be able to spend the night. You'll wear those neon green sweatpants and I'll laugh at you for them, but you'll probably look good anyway. We'll watch old movies, like the one where Robin Williams and young Matt Damon go see about a girl, or the one where Audrey Hepburn spends her time in jewelry stores and doesn't name her cat. For now I can only come over for enough time to watch a few episodes of a show about a paper-selling company. I like it, though. I've always loved the theme song, and your laugh is still one of the best things I've ever heard.
One day I'll get in your car and we'll spend hours driving around, exploring and seeing where we end up. I won't worry about traffic being slow or getting caught, and you'll play your music as loud as we can take it while we try to find the best places around here to get lost. For now we talk about running away on the way back to my parents' world, and I wish with all my heart that we could one day. You don't let go of my hand the entire car ride.
One day I'll be free to make my own choices, and you'll be the only option that I want. For now I'm sixteen, and you're seventeen, and we're both young and naïve, and we both make wishes at 11:11. My favorite kisses are the ones that taste like your coffee, and you laugh at me for the time last year when I only liked tea. Sometimes I'm not good at hiding how sheltered I've been growing up, but you never seem to care. You make fun of my poetry, but I keep writing it anyway. I make fun of you for being way too into weight lifting, but I agree to try it with you sometime. And there's a lot we don't really know yet—but with everything I am, I love you and I love you and I love you, and that's exactly how I know that one day we'll be able to be anything and everything we want to be.
For now that's all I can say. But "one day" is much less of a daydream and much more of a promise.
I think this was meant to be spoken word. Maybe one day I'll record it.
To Jaycup
To Jaycup
