He loves me;
When we talk,
the conversation never stops.
Your enthusiasm, like a wildfire,
ignites my heart, leaving me with the heat of passion.
He loves me not;
It feels like a race I’ll never win,
a tunnel with no light at the end,
a story where I’m the fool,
fumbling again and again.
He loves me;
Behind my eyes are dreams—
dreams where the sound of you sleeping next to me
put me to rest like the softest lullaby,
dreams of feeling your smile against my lips.
He loves me not;
Your eyes tell a different story—
a story without me or we,
a story where I’m a subplot in your script,
where I’m a footnote and not your love interest.
He loves me;
But your smile cracks through the clouds,
like hot chocolate during a harsh Midwestern winter,
like lemonade in a blazing sun belt summer;
Justin Bonomo would be jealous at how it makes me fold.
He loves me not;
I want to tell you how I feel,
but I fear that it’s unrequited.
I can turn you into poetry,
but I can’t make you love me.