When She Sits Next to Me
All at once she makes me sick to my stomach, and
also feel like I’m Superman or something, and
my palms are dripping faucets; and
somehow even my eyeballs sweat.
Has she always worn her hair like that?
Is that a new dress?
I sink deep into my seat, and
even though I haven’t figured it out,
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do trig again.
A weakness of the knees;
a quickness of the heart, and
my face hurts from all this smiling!
My IQ and my heartbeat
have an inverse relationship now, and
I swear she smells like sunshine and strawberries, and
everything that is light and joy and summer and perfection, and
why do I suddenly care how my hair looks? And
why do I hear her name in every song I hear? And
why, when she sits next to me, do I do everything I can
to avoid making eye contact?
I fumble my pencil as I think,
it feels like there’s a first period pop quiz and I didn’t read; but
it’s more than a crush –
crushed is how I feel when she walks hand in hand with Taylor.
It must be, regardless of what my older brother says,
inescapable, undeniable, and