There's that squeeze,
Or chalkboard scrape,
Or sliding under the sand
Feeling,
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
Fantasy.
-
Just give me his presence and that
Squeezing-scraping-sand-tsunami
Wipes out worries,
Devastates despair,
Leaving a trail of gleeful
Imagination
In it's wake.