It's in the smile I try not to give you
and the slow way I lift my eyelids to look at you.
The tilt of my head when I try to stare at you
in class, trying my best not to let you notice.
The way I bite the inner corner of my lower lip,
trying hard not to laugh childishly when you
make a simple comment.
It's in the special way my handwriting curls,
neatens, when I'm writing a poem about you.
It's in the way I shake my head and laugh,
trying to cover the smile I can't get rid of
when you're talking to me. The way
I've memorized the way your eyes blink,
the way your eyelashes flutter. The way
you hold a pen, the way you fold your hands
behind your head when you have nothing
to do, the way you raise your eyebrows slightly
when we're having one of those conversations
that make me bite my lip. The way you do
things, say things, think things. The way I
watch you move. The way I try not to.
I don't know much about you, really, but
sometimes that's not how it starts. It's in
the way I associate things with you, like
characters from books, certain movies and
songs, and the way I sit around, thinking
"Damn, why can't it be more?"

January 18, 2011.