PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I waste my time and I don't know why I get this feeling stuck in my brain or a dream trapped in my mind. They come up out of nowhere, the past or the present loneliness for something i am missing,

I was seven years old

when we met

we both were

placed in the speech group

and we were never cruel to each other,

though many many schoolmates would be.  I remember that you were never then unkind to me.

I hope that I wasn't unkind to you, but can't be sure, youth and pride, conceit, isolation, makes (some of us) to do foolish or thoughtless things.

I have chosen my path, but your star is one I go back to, the place where the tails of comets had crossed once, maybe a spark even flew off and touched down before it burnt off, or burnt a spot on my sleeve.

Being in class with you, when I was 16 , was one of the best times I had in all that school.  It began simply and carefree, and as it went on, easy, relaxed but tainted with a small and near-perfect amount of crush akwardness.

I didn't know, I don't think, when it turned from one to the other, maybe it was such a smooth transition from mutual admiration, and long-held respect through kindness carried up from second grade, but it was, it was there, and it swelled and grew to the perfect pitch of senior-year crush

I never knew, and still don't now, if there was anything on the other side; I always told myself there couldn't be, but looking back seeing there might have been, (though ill-fated and ill-advised) filled me years just after, and even now,  with remorse I cannot fully posess.

You made me happy, in a natural, easy way, and I felt , without thinking about it then, that I made you feel good as well.  I tried so to hide exactly how good of a feeling it was for me, to sit next to you, to talk over class, to be in your esteem, to see you not shying away from my own.  Big socks, short stories, religion, should I grow out my hair...high school dance, suffering,then conquering together 

most akward  rite of dancing to Marvin Gaye. 

I hold those minutes in my mind or my soul, they are like small  treasures to me;  the kind that a grown women will always carry. not needing or being asked to throw it away, but hold within her teenage self. 

It always meant so much to me, and this one giddy proud  moment when you told me you liked my glasses. The one time I wore them  that year.

Saying I was 16, but really I was 17, the second half of the year, I remember walking into that class I was so excited for, but msiing the class from previous semester, and the only other part I would miss, besides class itself, was being there with you. Remember my jolt and relief I walked into the new class and found you there, and there we had one final semester together, desk to desk, idea, joke, to joke and idea..

This was after you brought me from 16 -17, during break , in my kitchen, in a most quaint, polite, but bold gesture, one I never forget, but agonize over, my reaction to it, that it may have been takn offeniisve or, or unkind to you.

Then it all falls, I had the admiration, or respect, friendship? of someone who made me feel that I was worth something, that I was good, funny, could be...and when did I fall? How many times did I fall that you were looking?  Was there any going back?  Did my nervousness feel like dismissal, disinterestm ridicule?  (And it hurts me so much more, stings my brain as well, that I couldve done that to you as well as myself.)

Did I shame you? Did you have anything there that could be hurt?

When I see it now how shamful and embarrassing, and highschool-like , that I admire and compliment this person who will never even notice me, never even have the  time or the desire for the time..I have to wonder if it is just. 

I know, it will never be you.  I must be nothing to you, not even a memory, not even a possible conversation, or friend.  You won't even talk to me now, though keeping the facade of aquaintance.  If this is what I am, a burden, a polite aquaintance,

well, that cuts me somewhere down inside my being or my mind, I almost want to tell you to just cut it off so I can walk away.

But I can't  I somehow only want for us to be friends, and, somewhere deeper and more murky with youth and memory, time and regret, greed, I want to tell you so very much, all the things you have been to me.