Twenty-one.

There are many things that you would like
to tell him. This, is not unusual. You do this.
You are only attracted to impossible people.
At least, you tell yourself, it is always
for the right reasons. It has nothing to do with
physical beauty or flowers brought to your steps.
This time you are concerned. Pushing against it
as if it were a rock, a door, or a lie.
He wasn't something to be afraid of at first.

So you make up excuses.
Something about friendship, and how you
"don't date people with blue eyes,"
even though you're in love with the ocean.
And how you need the water and he needs the sand.
Occasionally, you take a photograph
with your mind and note that you don't physically match.
Someone like him would not be with
someone like you, skin covered in pictures,
nervous mannerisms, etcetera, etcetera.
Maybe this is all imaginary, but you'll take
whatever boundaries you can get.

You wonder when this will become hard.
When you'll do something stupid like kiss him
or run. You're looking everywhere for a distraction.
More work, more nights away from home.
It doesn't hurt badly yet.
There are bigger things. But what if, what if,
what if. You take pride in being able to remove
yourself when there's an empty space,
in burying yourself in haystacks.
Everybody is waiting for something,
and you worry who will find you first.