tapping my feet.
drumming my hands on my knees.
smiling and nodding to your story
while making quick glances at the clock.
its nearly at the 40.
twenty minutes
till i can leave
without looking inpolite
your words, they bore me,
your sweet talk annoys me.
i'm sorry i'm wound so tight.
i value our friendship
but you just want to sit and flirt,
while i want to sprint and drive dangerously fast
and scream, and feel alive.
Your talking has stopped.
your eyes fixed on mine, waiting.
"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"
i snap out of my trance and look at you
"only that I love you"
i don't know why.
why you take that risk.
and say that to me
maybe i really don't know you
i look down at my hands, then back at the clock, which is now at the 52.
my foot stops tapping as i look into your eyes.

           maybe i love you too.