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Spring Lover

I wish you’d told me to write a song about you,
so this would be a little less difficult,
as your eyes will never read this mediocre work,
the work you accepted happily.
Avert your eyes if you can’t imagine sugar.
There had been many stitches,
there has never been so many wounds.

Nine, you were.
Eight, me.
Crying was my speciality, I beg to differ, it still is,
and you never failed to cause such a deep resentment.
You have dark eyes
and you joke you have a woman’s body,
but, I think:
I would still love you.
I beg to differ once more, my thoughts
are as curly as your black hair, I don’t mean it.
You’re too far as it is,
and we haven’t spoken.
There’s no hole but yes, a blur, a puzzle.
The piece is you, and there are some pieces I’ll never have.

I can’t write. I hope nobody sees this.
I think five people will read this.
You have the prettiest smile.
I don’t write songs.
This isn’t a song.
This is me yearning for you.
You have lovely notes,
and I don’t.

Once more you came into my life when eight became fifteen and nine, sixteen.
You remembered me,
And my embarrassing salty tears.
Thank heaven.
My mouth didn’t want to remind you.

Now I listen to your favorite artists and taste the horrid words of r&b,
wishing it were you singing them with me,
From Trafalgar Square,
or Circle,
or Triangle,
or Trapezoid, I said this one.
Your hands were never dry but I never got a chance,
and I think your embrace would be as warm as the coffee bean you pressed into my palm at the cash register where I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you,
or the hot chocolate with two cups each you spilled on your black clothes,
right before you put one arm around me.
That was when nine turned seventeen and eight, sixteen.
You will always be older.

Only once did your seventeen see the sixteen cry
when a soul departed from your loved one in the midst of my
apparently contagious laughter.
I sneezed.
You mocked me.
I loved it.
Truth or Dare, my idea.
You admitted about a blond, pretty thing.
I admitted about the one I cherished before for 761 days.
I think I fell in love then,
between your sadness
and my affection.

I always preferred curly than straight.
You were lonely and I wanted to go home.

Train rides: I stared.
Watering mouth,
I’m sorry if you ever noticed,
but, you were the best s i g h t.

Wedding day, you came down: black, curly, tall, eyes,
everything I loved and my heart
STOPPED.
My mouth couldn’t shut.
Secrets I nearly blurted, buried in my heart since ‘09.

I’m not good.
I get worse every year.
And you’re far from perfect,
maybe that’s why I attract your curls.

Then the arm came,
my hair tugged, softly caressed I wish,
and a hand dropped on my stomach,
a cuddle of a lifetime squeezed into one minute.
I swore you felt the same.

You fed ducks and I documented you, and counted your lashes.
I wanted to tell you.
I tried subtly.
Curly.
Black.

My pen is drying.
You are the longest poem I have ever written.
I wanted to touch you before I left.
She did but I didn’t.
I didn’t know if you wanted me to.
We had been enemies once,
closest friends twice
In McDonald’s once, scolded for talking through Beauty and the Beast.
“You’re different.”
“Yeah?
“A good different.”

I couldn’t hug you,
but I did fluff your hair finally,
and waved an “L” to you as we drove.

I wish I had.
I really wish I had.

These are my thoughts that I’ve now got to burn.
I think of you more than I think of myself.


I don’t regret it.






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