poem: the first boy

his eyes are sparkling liquid chocolate brown.

a  cliché description

but

when he looks over at her and whispers something anti-institutional

her fingers want all of the

excited energy clenched into his profile and the softness

that comes when he speaks to her

alone, purely as academics, of course, and

as fellow students in a class they think is boring but

she has been so starved for human kindness that she takes eye

contact as love.

He is brilliant; if she could bottle up his intellect and take it as a

drug she would abandon her morals in a second, and let her

mind live off the glowing things inside him. She

needs that pulsing clever conversation that he

wears like a second skin and

she will settle for being friends but only a little

progress is being made.

Still–can she forget? the way he looked over at her when they went to the professor’s

upper-class over-carpeted house for social

pleasures and all the girls were laughing loudly and she

was wearing black, with her bangs fringing her face and eyes beautiful

and gothic in mascara: she looked

old-fashioned and something else, maybe, that made his eyes slide over to

hers or look over at her from his place in the talking crowd when

she stood there, awkward and silent. She is not

imagining it there was winter in that

autumn air and maybe something else.

but right now.

they are not even friends.

their semester class is almost over and she

is

curious

scared

desperate

and so young

so innocent. if only something could

happen just

once

 

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