Awkwardcrushing

She wonders.

Cokebottle eyes hungrily eat

his similes. Her heart is whirring.

Stomach butterflying, flutters causing

hurricanes–

on his side of the world he is

sleeping.

Leaping, rather, falling, she

constricts, praying

he will lay her

open on some sonnet.

The metaphors are scandalized.

Intellectual more potent than asexual

attraction

is the onomatopoeia

of his laugh

is “eureka.” He shudders.

She quotes lines she hopes

are about her

hair, the tempting outline of her

hooded jacket.

Sometimes, she comes to nothing:

dies when good lines turn into

Bernini’s angel

thrusting spear into Avila

(“Bean.” she says. The wrong joke.

He laughs, awkward

a-ha

a-ha-ha

a-ha-ha-ha-ha anyway.

She watches his wet lips wriggle

like a woman’s

flirting hips.)

She isn’t much of a siren.

She knows that

nothing about her can

spread him

like he says she does. She’d blow

him

over with her verses, but

she has none…

…except that he makes her fevers dream.

She wonders.

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