I could really fuck myself up over a boy like you
(and by “I could” I mean “I am”)
with that slow crooked smile,
that kindness, that quick-witted humor that makes me smile
until you shatter me with silence.
Those stupid beautiful eyes twist me up, make me ache,
make we crave/need/want
as only a book-loving writer of a boy could (and can, and does).
A constant state of yearning is de rigueur as long as you’re here
yet not here, as present/absent as a quantum reckoning.
Oh, honey — you’ve fucked me up bad and I’m off to the races,
off-kilter, off in dreamland as I wait wait wait for you to wake up,
to love me, to make me feel like I matter, am matter, am solidly a part
of that life you keep close to the vest that I so desperately want to inhabit.
Thumb is out for this hitchhiker, this will o’ the wisp black-hole-dense dreamer
who loves you and might even gift you her smile
if you would only open your eyes.