Six months and Iām still musing over āgirl crush,ā pretty sure that itās the space in the dark where our lips do not, cannot, never will touch. (If this is my penance, at least let me paint her in a golden blush- to have and to hold, but never call my own).
I think that we are training wheels and hands that bite, she thinks that we are syrup in coffee and friends too busy to hang out. In her version, I find denial in a changing room, while she finds a dress that fits just so and looks so cool. (I hope her boyfriend knows; we are two types of the same fool).
She dates him in daylight now. They are cookie cutter heartbreak- fight, make up, and fight again. She tells me, āsweater season wonāt last forever,ā but sunshine merely ditches āold hoodieā for āoversized t-shirt.āĀ I shiver in size six, bite my tongue to keep from telling her that she only looks "great.ā (They walk home side by side, and though I do not wish it, I am the juice carton that separates their star-crossed knuckles at breakfast time).
Screw boundaries- I wonder if he grips her hips or tugs her wrist, bruises in the shape of too-big fingertips and a laugh that side-splits. I wonder if sheās ever thought about me, even by mistake, wonder if she knows that her stupid stupid half smile makes the bones of my shoulders ache. (Why chase after idle boys, when in my eyes, she could be the idolised?)
I class I write the simple hypothesis: her mouth tastes like the lipgloss she āborrowedā three weeks ago. Or maybe Iām kidding myself. Maybe sheād taste like smoke and ashes and him and all wrong, and maybe Iād hold her like she was china instead of plastic and sheād get oh so bored.
We test this theory skimming rocks on the sand, bitten hand in bitten hand. He is a figure in the distance, a movie reel of old pictures. She is warm and shines golden, and my heart beats in starts until the spell is broken. (āIāve missed you.ā// āYeah, right.ā After three cones of vanilla ice cream, she is a mockingbird in flight).
The words āIām sorry,ā are spiders in my throat (and fireflies in her own)- sorry that I care more for soft skin than modern art, sorry that all my cryptic texts ask, beg, plead to return to stuttered starts.
I donāt even qualify for experiment- isnāt that the worst part? Her exception is tan and tall and sheās going to kiss her neck in a college bar and leave without looking back, call me and laugh about our common ground. Sheāll use a drunken string of āstrange-envy-hot,ā and Iāll play along, pretend like I hide no shame beneath my sheets, conceal no storm between my ribs.
(But in the darkness, I am wrong).