It is 02:13am again -
03:13 for you.
Afternoon.
My lack of impulse control means that I have written
Hey nerd I miss you
Seventeen times without sending it.
Part of me aches for the birdsong I call your voice.
Part of me knows I'm only eighteen.
This will pass.
Drape yourself in a shawl of delicacy,
A cloth weaved from tenderness. The way you crack your knuckles, obnoxiously laugh, mark my neck.
I watch it all fall
into place and see a perfect harmony of awkward charm.
(If affection could light up a room, I'd be such a glorious wildfire.)
Look in the mirror,
Lanky and resplendent, and see yourself
the way I see you.
Part of me knows.
I am terrified.
I am terrified
of every touch and every word. Every way we look at one another.
Part of me knows I am only eighteen.
This will pass.
Part of me hopes that I never age a day.
I've only ever found bliss in the way
your knuckles press to my lips.
Small moments,
stolen in the limelight of mutual friends,
are the things I hold on to.
Eleven hundred miles separate
us
for now.
But like this, it will pass
And we'll see each other again.
I think this is love?
YOU ARE READING
Anathema
PoetryMy sexuality and desperation to love myself are constantly at war. Somehow, I always lose
