I'm not saying you shouldn't dream, just,
this isn't the place.

I know how she wakes you up in the morning,
like she's got somewhere to go that's important
and you're already, a day or two or eight, late.

Your handwriting reminds me of chocolate chip pancakes
and the smell of rain through an open window in February.
You shouldn't press down so ******* your eraser.
It confuses people. Always sounding like sneakers
rubbing against linoleum and it's misleading when
you have feelings you can't explain and you've
been waiting for what feels like three days without
taking a ****, but you're waiting because you don't
want to miss something important, and even though
it hurts the way bee stings, and paper cuts, and
too many donuts after dinner hurt,
you hold it.

It's hard to keep my eyes open.

thinking of you on the nights we didn't sleep,
or the ones where we would sleep wide awake
but we wouldn't talk.
I'd talk. you would listen.
you liked it and I needed it, so it made sense
for us to be in the same room.
I got lost in something you asked me to explain.

"time to dance,"

your reason:

"No one's watching, just let go."