in spinning pens
You told me your favorite song. I wouldâve never guessed until I asked. It became my favorite, too.Â
You showed me how to fiddle with a penâspin it until your mind goes blank and focuses on how it feels through your fingers. And everything else becomes noise.Â
It started to grow on me. I learned from the best.Â
I sometimes wish I could get inside your head, say all the things you wish youâd said. But maybe I wasnât really prepared for what Iâd see.Â
You sang your (my) favorite song to her. Your fingers held onto the strings like youâd hold on to a penâfiddling, without fear of consequence. Only this time, unlike any other times, you did this with your heart in your handsâready for whatever sheâs about to do in response.Â
Iâm not gonna lie to myself and say that I didnât think it was gonna be me.
 And if you looked at me and told me you never felt a single thing, I wouldnât believe you.Â
You told me you understood. Why I couldnât look you in the eye, why I could never hold a pen without thinking of your fingers, why I could never play your favorite song again. How could you understand?Â
I told you I knew, too. I understood, too.Â
And for a moment I hoped it could me be.Â
I hoped I could be the one you notice from across the room. I hoped your smile would beam when you hear me laugh just like mine does for you.Â
 Maybe, in spinning pens and unsent messages, I could be her.Â
But Iâll watch as you twirl your fingers and make me lose my balance. Iâll watch as Iâm pulled apart by the constant merry-go-round I didnât sign up for. Iâll watch and breathe and brace myself and not do a single thing to stop you.Â
Because even in spinning pens, how Iâd love to cross your mind.





















