you make me feel like I’m seventeen
meet me at my locker after class
so for three minutes, we can hold hands
and on a Friday night, rubbing shoulders
in the bleachers, while the homecoming
champions are announced below
we’ll dance tomorrow
(even though we don’t dance)
and take pictures in town, by the river
(what would you look like beside
an emerald dress?)
and this is my sister, the giraffe
(when she got engaged, I couldn’t
tell you fast enough)
will you be coming over for dinner
because my mother’s been asking
for months now
and my family’s already looked you up
on social media
all my friends know your name
by the pink in my cheeks when I verbalize it
my fingers are crossed for your response
but I confess, sometimes when you talk,
your words are muffled music while I
slow down time to count the freckles
on your face and I wonder about the stubble
there, what it would feel like against my
fingertips, smooth or scratchy
and would you let me?
I can hardly contain my excitement,
losing sleep over the thought of Thursday
(where will we meet and what will we eat
what should I wear and do you even care?)
you make me feel three years younger
(maybe because you are three years older)
the thrill of being seventeen again and you,
whole-heartedly, consciously sober
we could sit on the curb, sipping coffee,
watching the city traffic drive by
and in the winter, by the wood stove,
we could play cards with my brothers and sisters
(or your brother and sisters)
while snow falls outside the window
my mother makes homemade hot chocolate
at Christmastime and here, my newly wed sister
bought you an ugly sweater for the festivities
but what I most look forward to
is putting my head in the crook of your neck,
feeling your pulse with the point of my nose
and knowing you aren’t a product of my imagination
(like you tried convincing me that day at shift change)
but that you really really are nonfiction
and we are an endless display
of possibilities
Just Thoughts 