the first non-artist i ever kissed twice
is staring at me, twelve weeks later,
jaw like a knife
and skin like the third month of summer
that's always cut short.

and he won't write poetry
or instrumental music
and call it “blue eyes like a blindfold”
if he thinks about me on the field,
i'll never know.

he's not pensive,
just reaches out and touches where my cheekbones should be,
then my lips
before sliding down to my empty belt loops,
back up to where my tank top ends and my shorts don't start.

he draws his hands back and smirks,
“just as pretty as ever”
and i want to know
how
he makes simple words
sound so ugly.