It was a Friday in January
when I nervously slammed a note down
on a guy’s desk,
I couldn’t even bare to look at him.

He was about my age
who had hair the colour of milk chocolate,
and skin almost as pale as a sheet of paper.

Across his face were freckles
that I liked to connect into a picture
like stars into a constellation.

In the note were words
that expressed my feelings for him.

I told him I thought we could connect
like a game controller to a console.

He called me up that night,
and said he thought we could work as well.

We started going out after that,
and now it’s been three months,
but for some reason it feels like
it’s been three years.

We talk like most teenagers do,
about getting married,
how many kids we want,
and where we want to live.

I want five, he wants two,
and we want to move up north
because neither of us can stand the heat.

One time he told me
that on my eighteenth birthday,
if we’re still together
he’s going to propose to me.

For some reason, I really hope we’re still together.

At night when we’re on the phone,
I can hear the tiredness
and the want to stay awake
in his voice.

When he says goodnight,
and “I love you,”
I can’t help but wonder if he really does.

In a relationship like ours
we have wishful thinking,
and arguments we always apologize for-
even though I start most of them.

Though no one would consider our fights serious
because we’re only sixteen.
 

You never know when it’s going to end,
because relationships at our age
are as fragile as human bones.