I couldn't capture this moment in a poem even if I tried. I don't know; the lines and verses couldn't contain everything I felt. I'd try to write a line about the split-second collision of our bones, the one where you felt so tensed and scared and I felt like I knew just what to do, but it didn't work, man. I can't ever write a poem the way I want to. I'll get carried away and miss a crucial moment, forget to include something I could describe so beautifully, and right then the poem's just dead. You can't uproot the whole thing to fit in that one piece. Doesn't work, man.
But I wanted to write about it. I still do. It was too perfect to just let go. I want to lay it down so I'll remember it. Then, of course, post it on the internet so other people will read it and say, "Wow, man, love the poem" and wonder what the hell I was on about the whole time.
The whole night was just unbelievable. I can't believe how far we've come. I asked nicely and you got up the courage to come ring the doorbell, accepting the risk. Then you just looked up at me through your eyelashes, the ones so perfect any girl would kill for them but they got given to a boy instead. Just that moment there, your eyelashes casting shadows on your cheeks, wearing that nervous, offhand smile, could fill an entire poem to bursting. The passing over of your skateboard, still hot from the friction of the wheels on the street, would be a whole other poem. I left it leaning against the couch; you had a real reason to come back, then, 'cause you can't live without your skateboard, right? You told me so. If you're not sleeping or sitting restlessly in class, you're out on that thing. That's a whole other poem altogether: how you have no socials skills to speak of, and you're the most awkward-looking person I've ever seen, yet you're all style and grace on a skateboard.
But everything keeps bringing me back to that moment, where my head was nestled into your shoulder and I discovered the poetic potential energy your whole body hums with. Physics continues to astound me, along with the way biology brought us here to this.
Just weeks ago this would've been impossible. You're still getting over that paralysing fear of being near me, and I still can't sit too close. But it's coming along. This time you stopped me as I was walking away, asked me, "So, hey, when're we gonna do this again?" Someday it might even get to where I can reach out and touch your hair and tell you what I think about it (it's so cool, I absolutely love it), and you can knock on my window at night and beg to come in like a normal teenage boy, and discover that I won't say no.
For now, just keep your phone on you so I can reach you any time I want. Come on over on Saturday night. Maybe sometime I can tell you I love you, because I do. Don't worry. More changes will come.
You just have to figure out that you need to lean in and tilt your head, maybe hold back your hair. I'll do the rest, baby. You just gotta remember you're six inches taller than me.
Oh, yeah, and charge your phone, dumbass.