I am gaga for authority figures
How close up to someone do you have to be to realize they are 25, single, and do not shave their legs on a regular basis?
It feels good to wish you happiness
I feel you push it right back to me
Like ping pong
Or a trampoline
Or the resistance of my mattress when I press against it
When I wish you happiness, I know you wish it for me, too
As you wander the world, looking for things to impress an artsy peace core chick,
Pause for a Melissa thing or two
Take a minute and miss me
I’m here, too
“I don’t know how old you are, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are very wise,” he said to me, awkwardly confessing to me, in a way I’ve always known to mean: I want to fuck you and feel uncomfortable about it.
“It’s fine, I want to fuck you, too!” I wanted to shout back. I wanted to make him comfortable, let him know it’s mutual, let him into my head where I fawn over him, yet where I watch him whince when I tease him, overanalyze him: a symptom of my obsession, his quirks are all so cute to me.
He hasn’t let on yet that I am so warm to him. I can’t let on to him that I am so warm. I want him to know, we’re in the same place, with a wink or accidental bump, a physical connection of meaning. I want to jump him mid meeting. I will not jump him. I will not let on. I cannot let on.