I’m ready for the intoxicating lilt of easy, flowing banter;
for stolen glances — and also for unswerving, confessional eye contact.
I’m ready to collect meaningless trivia,
to hound my phone for texts, for warm goodnight wishes.
I’m ready for the tingle in my stomach, for heat to conquer my face,
for imperceptibly-shaking hands.
I’m ready to feel an arm draped over my shoulder, and to lean into that touch.
(I know this is what I miss the most).
I survey a goofy selfie and think,
I’m too cute to be single.
I am a girl who wants to share.
But I’m also prepared for
the teeth-grinding, the sleeplessness, the excruciating slow burn,
the agony, the annoyances, and a looming sense of doom.
I’m ready to split myself open and, in return, to hold your anxieties — dilute them.
(I know how to consciously set a bomb for self-destruction. I still don’t regret it.)
I notice you, silhouetted by the wintry brightness of a library window, and think,
I love boys too much to be single.
But I am just a quiet girl with a screaming soul.
Come over here — be as crazy as me — I don’t think I can convey myself to
the right person with enough time.
(“You know, the word passion comes from the Latin word to suffer.”