When and How

 

This is madness.
Nonsensical, unadulterated lunacy I cannot defend.
By now, I should be on something else.
I should be writing about depression, bitter disappointment
or other wrongs of the world that revolve around me
like a solar system knocked off course.
I am so hopelessly stuck,
I cannot say or write enough about you to be any less.

I gave up last summer when I wrote you off as a crush that would pass.
I gave up some time that December
when I was shown more than one Christian Christmas card
signed Jessi Mae.
I gave up in February, when you were so surprised and replied “I don’t….”
before interrupted my raised hand.
I wonder now what the whole sentence was going to be, but I will never ask.
I gave up a few weeks ago, when I got drunk and decided
I would not do anything purposely to see you again.
I give up after every event of you not paying attention,
only to relapse at the next sight of your face like an involuntary resetting.

You belong to a church, lead bible study and sing psalms‘.
It’s obviously such a significant part of who you are,
in anyone else, it would have been a deal breaker, a turn off.
But in you, it’s made me want to get closer to God.
It made me want to go buy a guitar
and sing acoustic versions of soft rock ballads by your side
in a setting that would never be appropriate
the moment I was told you play keyboard and have a good voice.
You are there every Tuesday, but I won’t go, I wouldn’t belong there,
staring at you instead of genuinely being involved.
Worshipping you like a false idol probably wouldn’t be a step closer to your heart.

You act much older than I suspect you are.
In the fall and winter, wrapped up in colorful scarves and button up sweaters,
pulling them close, walking around with a hot mug of tea
like a little old lady trying to feel held by her own arms and warm clothes.
I have never in my life seen something more endearing than you in that season
and there’s nothing I’ve wanted more than to be the one that gets to hold you
when you go home and trade those things out for a blanket.

Off paper, I have always been the most private person,
but I talk about you to all sorts of people,
at times for some bit of advice or unneeded approval
but mostly, because it simply cannot be helped.
After I’ve seen you, I walk around in this congested fog,
feeling bottled, implosive, restless and
full of exclamations that just, have to be made
if I expect to live.
My friends have said you are cute, have pretty eyes
and don’t look straight.
But I say you are beautiful, devastatingly, disarmingly so
and the first time I really looked into your eyes I said
I could hear angels playing instruments.
Waiting for them to meet mine is like waiting for medicine to take effect.
Waiting for you to see me the way that I see you
seems more relevant than your orientation and how sure you may feel about what that is.
The way that you make me try to be a better person
even when you are not watching is probably more important
than whether or not you ever come around,
but by now
you should know that I won’t be thinking, talking, writing or dreaming of anything else but when and how.