(merf. poem from sept. '06)

I am in love with a boy who plays guitar.
He is long, and thin,
with far too many elbows,
but he has a strong jaw,
and a firm chin—
one with a small indent
where my finger fits perfectly,
pressing a tiny print into his stubble.

Sometimes I wish I could forget him:
those gorgeous eyes—
they're always watching me!
He is a mirror of myself
and I can read him like a poem,
deciphering the symbolism in the broken necklace he gave me
when it was whole.

I want to push him out,
shut my eyes,
so I can no longer remember that perfect shade of brown,
or the texture of his hair.
I want to forget the temperature of his skin,
and the angle of his cheekbone,
and the way he looks at me
through his hair
when I am beautiful
and he wishes I was all his
like before.

I am in love with this boy, this musician,
in a way where I am yelling and I want to cry,
and in a way where I am silent and cannot breathe,
where I whisper the days of the week
and numbers one through twenty
in French
just to see him quiver
and long to wrap his arms around me once more.

I want to forget the rhythm of his heartbeat,
and sometimes I hope,
one day,
our breathing might fall out of synch.