he was the kind of beautiful he would never admit to himself or to anyone else, the kind nobody else would ever mention to him in passing. you wouldn't really notice it, either, but you kind of knew it too, deep inside where you kept your most precious secrets, and you would only know anyways if you took the time to look into his face and study those eyes, and oh! oh, those creases by the side of his mouth because he was always, always laughing, even when he was mad he was laughing, like he was born into this world to be happy, born to be so much freakin’ happier than everybody else that for a second, you want something, you want what he has, but you don’t really know what it is.

and he has brown eyes, most definitely brown eyes, except they're so much more than just brown eyes it feels wrong to say just ‘brown’. a bajillion gajillion people have brown eyes, but his, they hold so much and they mean so much more- they're empty and they're deep and they hold so much promise, like a locked diary that you once had the keys to but lost so much years ago you can’t even count them on your fingers, and she can see so many colors in them- purple, golden-blue-ish colors with pink tints like the sky before a sunrise which aren't very manly colors, so you keep your mouth shut.

he was that kind of beautiful. the kind with chestnut-brown hair, except darker than that, except not really chestnut- it was warmer than that, really, and darker than that too, like the kind of gooey-warm-piping-hot melting mess of a marshmallow over a fire, the kind that burns your fingertips and leaves black stains on your jeans but melts perfectly in your mouth, except marshmallows aren't brown by any stretch of the imagination, and that's the feeling you know no one else would understand- so you keep it to yourself.

and if she ever told anyone, they would think- "oh. another giggling girl going after the basketball ****." that’s all they would think, she could see it in their faces they were thinking that, but she doesn't say anything because what if she's wrong? what if they're thinking about how strange she looked, or what was for lunch, or how long chemistry homework will take them, so she swallows her words because she knows they don't know

that he's really his kind of beautiful, not that kind of beautiful that people say only when they're trying to say ugly in a kinder way, but really, truly, his own kind of beautiful,

and

now you know exactly what you want.

I never got a chance to tell you

                     but I was in love with your handwriting
                                          almost as much as I was in love with you;

so elegant and exquisite and refined and Beautiful

and now
you'll never know
                                         that my g's and y's are a little more curly at the ends



because of you.

he said i could make him laugh only when i caught him off his guard;

and i guess it's kind of weird i never got jealous when he said he missed his pleasantly-plump [(fat)] red-headed [(ginger)] girlfriend who was pretty in her own way;

                                           [(ugly)]

and i can't even believe i still remember the times we shared, eating cold pizza and drinking warm soda

              you always wanted it the other way around but life's not that easy, darling, trust me.

the feeling
of driving by houses you used to live in, Christmas lights shining (something we never did),

and knowing that
strangers
are
                       using your bathrooms, laughing and having Labor Days' and lazy Sunday afternoons and making memories and disastrous apples pies,


and for a moment you kind of hope
      they have a lot of trouble with the leaky pipes on the 2nd floor

the air tastes fresh
like
ripe strawberries, and clean things, laundry detergent
fresh-squeezed lemonade, sun-warmed swings

soft, so still,
the world so sleepy

feeling like if you screamed, houses would
shatter

running down the driveway just to feel the wind in your hair,
your shadow sprinting after you, calling, panting, "wait up!"

and you have never

felt
more

*alive

he speaks like a poem,
asking me if the train is going forward
or if the tracks are going backward

and
i'd never tell him, but
i'd walk on backwards train tracks forever and a day

if he was holding my hand

you play me like
a 1963 Gibson f-hole guitar, mint condition:

you know exactly where to hold and press and play
moving your fingers with such talent it takes my breath away.

so tune me to your heart’s desire,
because I like it best when you’re pulling the strings

if you cannot        t  a  s  t  e        poems
or take the time to lick their wrappers


you are
     wasting
            your
                          t    i    m    e

he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young

he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and ****, as if he could calculate Life

strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world

not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and

realness

of the hug that
makes them so

great.

it's the best feeling in the world, really

                  shotgun in your car, the faint smell of cigarettes and air conditioning,
  flying down this lonely highway

  sticky soda residue and empty Coke bottles in the cup holders,
                  seat reclined as far back as it can go

  the neon signs, the moon, white stripes on the road, all
                 blurring into darkness,
                            my eyes closing in the heavy air



    drive me to sleep tonight, dear
          because there's nowhere else I'd rather be