that first time I really met him
(a too hot January evening,
where the people hurried home from work
with shirts sticking to sweaty skin
and mobile phones glued to desperate ears)
he smiled at me like
I was worth something more
than just a fleeting meeting between
two sort-of acquainted strangers
that would never happen again.

and I wanted to know so much about this boy
who made my stomach flip
and my blood rush
and my mind feel like it couldn’t put together
a single coherent sentence
or meaningful thought
(other than kissmekissmekissme.)

I wanted to know everything I could;
his name, all of it, and how it would taste on my tongue,
because I was sure it would be just as beautiful as he was;
the last time he cried and why
so next time it happened he could have my shoulder and my sympathy;
whether or not he had ever smiled at another awkward girl that
and if it had made her feel like she could do something of worth in this world,
the same way I did every time he looked my way.

I wanted to be his only one.

and sometimes I idly think about how we must look together
(two crazy hippie kids)
and I can’t help but feel he sees the me in me
no one else knows.