#hemustbemagic

I try to insist 

that he is not like the others. 

He is sweet and kind and 

perceptive and intelligent. 

Awkward and beautiful 

and the embodiment of 

a Golden Snitch that 

wears Nike sneakers 

and blushes bright 

pink when he laughs. 

These words that I 

want to give to him, 

they must be worth something. 

As a poet, I must cement 

him in stanzas. 

His fingers that I wish 

would brush my own. 

His slightly tanned arms 

with the beginnings of 

teenage boy muscle. 

The way he sometimes 

peeks up from those 

violin strings he calls lashes. 

The way he talks and how 

he focuses on me when 

he talks to me. 

Uses his hands to paint 

a masterpiece of himself. 

He bounces on his toes. 

Tells me that his brain 

moves so fast sometimes. 

He can’t keep up. 

I want to brush his cheek 

with my hand. 

I want the fire to ignite in 

his eyes. 

I want to sit next to him, 

to lean into him and 

listen to him talk. 

Instead, I make him 

laugh and try not to