slumber parties

Its not him.

Maybe its only your desire

to love and be loved.
He's a muse.

Reading copious amounts of poetry is giving you butterflies in the stomach and raising goosebumps on your skin like you’re a teenager all over again.

You try to take your mind off of him, smoking and dancing to the music playing in your head.

You’re nervous and fidgety, constantly jumping and talking nonsensical cutesy stuff because you cannot handle this teenager any longer.

You look at his hands, they’re wanting to be held.

Your toes poke his calf muscles while you sit in a crowded corner of the room.

That’s the most physical contact you are ever going to get with him.

(You think).

You've been told

that if you repeat a word

over and over

it loses its meaning

So you stay up

countless nights

repeating his name

hoping

that he will mean less to you

with each breath.

summer afternoons

if I wrote you a poem
and rode my bike to your house
because I wanted to give it to you
while it was still warm,

would your door be open?

Would you smile for days?

Me: Knock-Knock!

You: Who is it?

Me: To.

You: (paused and smiled) To whom?

And you wondered how I fell in love with you, deeper, every single day.