your eyelashes
bat like they’re waving hello flirtatiously,
and our shoulders brush
like two lovers stealing a final kiss,
we laugh like mountains moving
and thunder rolling
and we talk like the static on an old radio
my heart has tuned (doomed) itself to
a never-ending replay of you humming underneath your breath,
breathe everything you are into me
like remorseful resuscitation
you ask me
whether I like the boy with Friday nights in his eyes,
and I act demure,
like my skin doesn't get warm whenever you smile,
like my hands don’t yearn to be entangled with yours,
like I don"t get pulled into everything you are

my friends will poke and ****
to make me profess
“you love him!”
and I just shake my head,
because this is a love best kept
in a box at the bottom of my chest
where it is heavy and secure,
free from outsider’s ears

on Saturday nights, I will send winky faces
and blush at other boys
and I will tell you all about it once I crawl into bed
and listen to your voice wrap around me like a home,
you have become my home,
sweet home

on Sunday mornings, I will picture her
spreading her love on you like a rose pink watercolor
and kissing you like fast cars and green green green lights
and you, looking at her
all wide-eyed and bold fists
and I will ache
but I will amend.