you read my poetry without ever truly reading it.
you saw me without ever needing
to turn a page. lines and lines
of my soul etched in ink—you
took one look down and saw more
of me than i ever thought.
how do you do that?
that is, know me so well
when my mouth is closed?
you persisted with questions
that were stones to my heart,
yet i answered back. i told you more, even when i was afraid. you kissed me without touching me; your eyes made the moves your lips were too nervous to think. you make me daydream of sunshine without clouds;
you make my chest hurt,
even when it’s warm.
my head is full of stars. my days are tedious. my nights are precious.
i rush to bed to dream of you.
i rush to bed because it doesn’t
seem so impossible to tell you
how i feel: like how you make me think of things that once seemed so distant. my soul is whole when we talk;
my heart aches when we part.
you never read my poetry, but it
is terrifying how much you know my heart.