It was like I stumbled back
Into my teens: her sitting there with
Her back to me while I willed her
Silently to turn around.

Words had brought me there, but
Suddenly there was none, save
Those sitting statically, mockingly,
On the pages in front of me.
They were not for her, but still
They got her attention, even if I was
Too far into the past to notice.

What is it about
The curve of a girl’s arm
That short circuits my nervous system
And pulls me back to adolescence,
To my hiding place behind
A wall of my own making?

Perhaps that is where I look
For perfection; perhaps my oblique brain
Sees something encoded there
That other eyes miss.

But it is not a step on the ladder
To friendship, nor a crack by which
An inconsequential conversation
Can be opened. Without an opening gambit,
No play was possible.

Instead, I am left to write rather than
Speak, and to believe, rightly or wrongly,
That she was perfect. Still, I smile
At the memory, calm in the knowledge
That she was perfectly her.

02/19/2016

Posted on 03/14/2016
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