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I like you, still.

Every time I've felt like sending you a text, I wrote a poem about you instead. My leather journal has become a short story with the theme of unrequited love, but silently I've managed never letting you know how deeply I care. You have inspired me in ways I hide—secretly, tucked in between my mattress and the box spring of my bed.


I like you, still.

(Featured in fine print below)

My memories didn't remember,

but my body did,

and I swear

it knew

you wouldn't stay.

My gut was warning me,

but as they say

the heart wants

what it wants,

so I told you "okay".

When we made

eye contact

for the first time—

I never looked away,

my green eyes refused

being lead astray;

seamlessly it started,

our foolish act of foreplay.

How did something innocent,

become so risqué?

You awaken me

like the end of night does

with the beginning of day—

thrust yourself inside of me,

and words cannot convey.

I am giving you

everything now—

knowing well,

you will walk away.

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