poems

bad kind of butterflies

And before I know it,
my mind is making a list
of every single thing
I shouldn't be wondering about.

Like how her perfectly tanned hand
might look against
my lighter, peachier complexion.

And whether there are tan lines
underneath her fitted gray hoodie and
obscenely tight jeans.

How we could
stay up all night
talking until daylight
about things we would never
tell anyone else.

How I want to
run my hands
through her hair
in the middle of nowhere,
nothing more to do
with our lives.

As if we might lay together,
her head resting
against my chest,
tracing the lines
of her delicate figure.

How I crave
kissing her perfectly tainted lips with passion,
my back pressed up against the wall,
the warmth of her body
sending shivers down my spine,
electrifying us both.

How I think about
all the little secrets
we could keep,
losing our religion
by loving each other.

The sweet little lies
we could savor.

But in reality I know
I'm out of my head.

As if I would ever have a chance,
for her to be mine.