sometimes i pretend i don’t see you
in the hallway
and just walk on by
pretending to be absorbed in
thoughts of English or a guy
or whatever goes through normal people’s minds
and somehow pretending not to care
about your wonderful, fascinating presence
brushing past me
never seems to work
because my pulse quickens enormously
no matter how big of lie i tell myself

people say you’re talkative
and i’m really having trouble
admitting to myself
that every waking hour i crave
some of your pointless words

i know i don’t have to beg
(you talk to anyone who listens)
but give me a
pointless word for my
pointless world

because i get in too many bloody fist fights
with reality
like when i try to keep walking
with a purpose
and all that happens is the
realization
that i’m dragging along an oversized secret
called my life
or these heavy, heavy thoughts of people like
you
smiling in the rain
like the innocent you are
like the only angel i don’t want to look away from
the only wonder of the world
without a book written about how bright it shines
but lady, there will be one in my soul…

for watching you has made me a poet