To The Boy

Author's Comment: This was written a few nights ago, December 23, 2009 at 2:34 AM

It's two thirty in the fucking morning.
I can't sleep.
And I can only focus on two things.
This page, and you.
Poetry, and You.
Or, poetry about you?
You In the form of poetry?
In graying graphite letters,
as insignificant as me,
but as world-shattering as you.
I couldn't possibly tell you,
how wonderful you are,
and how terrifying,
how mollifying, what you make me feel.
(or not feel, depending on the day)
not to your face, anyway.
and It's insane. I try, and I try
to convince myself that we're
"Just friends"
and I'm the one that's so scared of love
I'll say "It dosen't exist"
Defend it's non existence
then turn around, and write a poem
about how you make me feel it.
at two thirty in the morning.
I can't stop thinking about you.
Maybe all this poetry is getting to my head.
Or maybe
(No, surely.)
You are.