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Futile Infatuation

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I can’t wait to sit next to you.
Hear you speak
and know that you
are addressing me.
Not the pretty girl that’s diagonal
or your bro that’s behind.
When you laugh,
I want it to be
because of the joke I spent an hour looking for
and then a few hours
practicing in front of the mirror.

I want to walk next to you.
Feel your arm drape
across my shoulder and not,
have to watch it unfold and need
my imagination to fill in the holes.

Why is it
I do not feel satisfied with myself
unless I see approval slide across your face?

Why is it
as you walk away
that piece of me begins to slink after you?

But wait,
Where is that hollow feeling that usually follows?
No worry, No expectations.

And wait,
the noise is rising— rising from the friend that’s next to me
as she begins to tell a humble
yet ridiculously funny story.

Wait.

I’m wearing those frayed holey jeans
with the boots pulled taut over them like the other girls.
But my shirt,
my shirt I’ve had forever…
I regretted the choice this morning when I watched you glance at it
but now, it’s kind of nice,
being able to wear parts of myself proudly.

I turn around
and you had walked back in the classroom.
I hadn’t even noticed.





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