wallflower

I stutter because there are not
enough words in my vocabulary
that could possibly describe the
way I feel. So I turn away, forced
into ashamed silence as you look on.

And I am a wallflower, petite and
chained to this prison of brick and
mortar as you walk on by. Flushing
red, I look your way—

Our eyes meet.
If only for a moment,

I could have sworn that you smiled.
But who am I to believe such
things? I turn to my friends and you
to yours; we're lost in the crowd again,
in familiar and unknown faces.

Somewhere, in my dreams of
consciousness and somehow not,
I look for you. In the land and the
sea, I think I'll find you there, but
I am greeted with barren wasteland.

(“Once you love someone,
They never really leave your heart.”)

I find myself wondering if I
really do love you, or if it's
just this teenage lust.

So then I turn a page in my book,
stare at the faded blue lines for a
while (as time passes) and I start
to write everything down.

I catch you looking in my direction
and I smile, because it's the only
thing I can do. You pretend as if
you didn't notice and life goes on.

In-between dreams and reality, I
come to the conclusion that the
way I feel has everything to do
with you.

And I continue to write, because
it's when put my head down that you
notice me.

(If I acted like a wallflower
for the rest of my life,
would you pluck me from my
prison with careful hands?)

author's notes : it's safe to say that i don't know any more.