I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you I take the long way to class
in  a Chicago January
in the snow
on foot
just to finish dissecting Teenage Dream because you said that song reminds you of me
I will tell you I devote time out of my day solely to thinking about you  heart heavily.
Because I am always thinking about you, fair warning.
And if I let myself indulge a week's worth of thinking of you in one minute,
maybe I can study some for my midterm in the morning.

I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
In those blindsiding instances of stark realization,
when I get a knee **** reaction putting on my scarf that still smells like fruit passion
because I made you wear it on the El platform to fend off a wind that round every corner could bend,
I will take out my blackberry, tear off my gloves, and tempt frost bite on the tips of my fingers
to send you a text that reads “I miss you.”

I won't tell you I love you when I don't.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don't.
Baby, I need not be insincere, I am not in love. Yet.
And it’s not you, and it’s not me. It is everyone else here.
Everyone else beating my brain in with cosmic signs
of Matt and Kim playing on the radio when they never play Matt and Kim on the radio.
Every poet pleading with me personally will flip their pages and I will be deemed defenseless against all odds.
I will tell you I love you, and I will mean it so fiercely
my chest will cave in upon itself thumping like a cartoon and creating a gooey mess of pink hearts.
Because you heart pink hearts.

I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you embedded in the endless, elusive scenes of whimsy that make up my insides,
that song by The Darkness will play over every loudspeaker in the Student Center
because you paused,
you looked at me,
and you said “I love you. I really love you.”