this is real.

this is real.

this is real,

coca-cola red real.

heel stuck in the side walk, real.

skinned knee stinging real,

runs in my stockings real.

the way you smiled at me on the bus, real.

texts at 1 am, real.

forgetting my text book in my dorm room real,

running into you on campus unreal,

eyelashes- yes, they are real.

wide smiles, white teeth, real.

fingers touch, I blush coca-cola red, real.

it could be so easy if he was real.

wishful think [part one of many]

wishful think [part one of many]

once again,

man in my bed last night.

but unlike before

in every other way,

Including the man himself.

So why am I writing a poem about him?

Maybe it’s because I wish this poem was about

doing the dangerous dance?

This man just sleeps in my bed,

eyes closed, breathing slow,

laying beside me.

Our feet are tangled,

but that’s the only thing.

Warm hugs,

movie marathons with friends,

and a warm body in my bed.

My, oh my,

How different was last night.

Yet,

I find myself wishing

that I was writing about waking up,

awkward smiles,

and warm hands caressing my tense shoulder blades.

But maybe in time,

I will.

Shh… It’s just a crush.

Shh… It’s just a crush.

Don’t worry about it,

You deserve an easy crush.

That’s what my friends say.

Why do I feel the need to whisper about him, only?

He is relegated to only whispers

living in shadows of my

conversation,

but haunts my dreams.

I start running through the

soul crushing scenarios,

of what could happen if I did say hello.

I bet he’s gay,

Or has a girlfriend,

or his profile photo is

out of date, ancient, not him,

and he’s twice my age.

It’s just a crush,

no harm in a crush, right?

Then why do they give it

such a violent name?

Because this man i’ve never met has the

power to crush me.

All for a harmless crush.