It’s funny.
The one person I really
want to write a poem about
sits right beside me
in the class where I write all my poems.

I’m always afraid
that he’s reading my
fragile words.

Shattering them
like dropped glass
with his sharp blue eyes,

letters scaterring
across the floor.

Everytime he asks for a pen
it seems as though
he’s spent the last few minutes
mustering up the courage to speak.

His mouth makes a noise
like a dog swallowing back saliva
before he talks,
because of his braces.

That’s how I know when he
was about to say something,
but stopped himself.

I wonder if he thinks
I’m creepy.