I made up a crush on the playground called Owen,
The night before I dreamt of curls, of girls,
Of British schoolmates, a kiss on my check,
I might’ve forgotten the feel of her fingers tugging at my wrist, but I remembered that I loved her,
Not how I did, in action –
rather, the word ‘love’ as a title,
and ‘wife’ as mine.
Owen had dark waves, sun-threaded,
He was close enough to her,
For confessing my love and reminding him of ring-pop proposals,
I am nothing if not a creature of habit,
These professions of ‘mine and yours’ have now become a hobby, not a desire.
Here is what I did not tell you on the playground:
I have not loved any girl that I’ve kissed,
So when I fantasize, the woman and I are both faceless,
She never meets my eyes as she –
Her title is the word, ‘belong’.
(And) Last night,
This night, I dreamt of someone older, who laughed when I broke away,
Someone who knew better than me,
Because I am tired of hindsight, I am tired of growing tired of you.
I love best when I am 2000 miles away,
For aching is my speciality, not labor,
In malleable thoughts,
I want to be pliable,
I want to adjust to your form.
Here is what I did not tell you on the playground:
I am scared.
Of you, and curls, and how
I want to last in this moment when I am too tired to think,
Where you wanting me means you want me,
I want to last in this moment when I’m imagining you,
Where I pretend you’re imagining me – faceless, in your arms.
