i. i think every poem about blue eyes was written about you. aquamarines, the ocean, a clear summer sky, the lake at camp, the tiny flowers growing beside the porch — they have blended together into the enchanting color of your gaze.
ii. i’m not sure if i believe in the red string of fate, or soulmates, or 11:11 wishes, or even true love. but i pray that if they’re real, then when i’m tripping over thin air, it’s because our string is wrapped too tightly around my legs. if they’re real, then your soul will teach mine how to dance with yours. if they’re real, know that i always wish for you. if they’re real, then let this love be as sure as the north star.
iii. once we get that apartment, i’m going to kiss your forehead when you come home from practice, even though you’ll taste like sweat.
iv. i want to tell you. i cannot tell you. i will never tell you.
v. i find you everywhere. in dripping, sickly sweet popsicles, lazy summer afternoons, glasses of lemonade in pretty cups, snatches of pop songs from a passing car.
vi. i am sure that you are the sun stuck in a human body.
vii. it hurts to hear you talk about the person you love, because it’s not me. you look so dreamy and absolutely lost in love, and i wonder if you’ve ever felt that way about me.
viii. i hope you know that every time i call you a loser, i’m trying to say “i love you.”
ix. it took me years to even hug you. i was afraid that the quickening of my heartbeat would give everything away. or that the sparks when you touch that you read about in cheesy love stories are real.
x. romance novels are so predictable. there are impossibly perfect kisses. person a. accidentally breaks person b.’s heart. but it was a mistake. they make up and everything is fine again. things are always easy between them and they live happily ever after. this is no romance novel. this is a horror story with a romantic subplot.
xi. i write about you, sometimes, in my journal. there are poems about what your soul looks like, and song lyrics that blur into your name.
xii. love is not a choice, although i wish it was. i would tell myself to stop falling for my friends.
xiii. none of this matters. i don’t love you anymore.