The Hip To My Hop

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We're here,
together,
(look at me, being all insightful)
your stupid ski socks and basketball shorts,
my overworn sneakers and skinny jeans.
Hand in hand,
our fingers hugging almost as tight as we do.
Your face, that expression, I know it.
You're thinking, as I walk
and you do that thing you do,
that dancer skip.
And then you grin, with your creepy vampire fangs,
probably just thinking you're the best
because you just thought of the best thing.
In your squeaky, pre-puberty voice, you say it.
"You know what? You're the hip to my hop."
I smile, my teeth not creepy like yours.
(I'm serious, when we kiss, I fear for my life)
"You know what? You just made my day."





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