trying my hand at a little poetry

crush.

why do we call it “crush”?

I don’t feel any pain – no squeeze or pressing;

just a pulse beating

and über-consciousness, too.

It’s a stretch, a smile

a few moments of understanding

or was it a mediocre gaze?

I don’t feel a squeeze or a press,

only sensations I don’t want to explain.

what is my desire?

attention? touch? friendship?

I think: someone to ask

How was your day?

And really want to know.

I think: someone to look at me

and linger on my face.

I think: someone who I find interesting

and everyday I ask

What’s new?

Because I really do want to know…

Can a “crush” achieve that?

if it does, will it be just a “crush”?

Or does it graduate to love?

Or are we stuck in-between, until we are

crushed

with the certainty that they are the one?

(and I know I won’t know that one for a while)

Must we call it anything?

“Crush” feels heavy.

but it, too, is too light.

how can I name something that

feels permanent until it’s gone.

how do I name what I feel?

I mistrust

a crush.

All have fallen through:

too much weight put on them.

one flying thought

takes me for a ride.

Could it be? I ask, mid- flight.

Not: Do I like this.

Should I tell anyone? I ask soaring in the clouds.

Not: Should I tell him.

He’s interesting,

I justify.

He’s cute. He’s tall.

there are clues if I search back…

what do I do now, though?

I wish I were brave.

I wish I would go for it.

Because then,

there would be no “crush,”

only an everyday fling

something

that happened,

not something that sticks around

and leans on me when I’m inside.

Could it be?

Can it be?

Would it ever have been?

Why wasn’t it.

Maybe it’s because

I called it a

crush.

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