There's that squeeze,

Or chalkboard scrape,

Or sliding under the sand


Not in my stomach, but

Centered above,

Maybe all over,

A ripple,

A splash,

A flood.

I know it's not "like" (whispered

Through braces past lockers and Abercrombie,)

But I know it's not love.


I do know his eyes wipe me clean.

I laugh wider,

Smile louder;

My lips turn themselves

Inside-out when his name whispers

Past them.


I don't want romance,

Awkward kiss, Hi Sweetheart,

Petal touches,

Happy grass-stained knees,

Squashed knuckles,

"I love you."

I don't even want sex.

No sloppy, solid reality

Will weigh down my

Clean, floating



Just give me his presence and that


Wipes out worries,

Devastates despair,

Leaving a trail of gleeful


In it's wake.