becomes a mix tape made just for me.
I sink deeper into the velvet armchair and force my eyes to stay down,
to focus on the magazine,
bury them in print,
ignore the way my pulse is slamming.
Doesn’t matter, doesn’t last,
he’s gravity,
and my eyes crawl right back to him.
To the way he stands,
and how his black fitted jeans sit low on his hips.
How his weight drops lazy to one side,
leaning Michelangelo-carved.
He’s wearing a bomber jacket over a gray tee,
and he’s just standing.
Breathing.
Being.
Breaking me.
He moves down the wall, closer.
And I see the side of his face.
First, the glasses—simple, thin metal frames.
Then his hair—dark and thick,
longer at the top, short around his ears.
Broken-in-hair,
like an old leather jacket
or a favorite pair of jeans.
Soft, slightly messy,
raked through one too many times
from thinking too hard,
from trying to find the right words,
from holding in more than he knows how to carry.
