the boy who sat today with me
i had a secret crush on him -
the way he wouldn't stay still,
the way he avoided looking at me.
the girl who sat in front of me
sometimes i think of her and him -
the boy who sat two rows behind;
i know he wrote a book of some kind.
the way the light fell on the desks,
danced vulnerably upon our chests -
i've never liked that kind of light;
stories are only told at night.
i'm growing fond of noticing flaws,
analysing myself into liking them -
perhaps this is how one grows
up to be the child they were again.