I don’t want to shout my love from rooftops.
I don’t want to wrap you up in warm blankets,
hold you in my arms
and never let go.
I don’t want to place my thumping heart in your out-stretched hands
and let you care for it,
let you cherish it,
let you bounce it on the sidewalk
like an egg you aim to crack.
I don’t want to wake up every gentle Tuesday morning
to your smile or your thoughtful frown
or your tousled hair or your
But I do want to say this:
I like you,
let’s get coffee.
I won’t say I’m drowning in your eyes and their hazy soft green,
or that you’re my sun and I am just
a pale blue dot revolving around
your sphere of light.
I won’t say I can’t sleep in the weight of your absence,
or that you’re the thing I think about
before I drift away.
I won’t say I start trembling when I see you walk past;
fingers, arms, lips, stomach,
all the organs whose locations I forgot
after passing my 7th grade science test.
But I’d like to tell you this:
I like you.
Let’s get milkshakes.
I don’t think you’re a half of my whole,
don’t feel like you’re a segment of the clementine of me
whose loss would make me imperfect.
I don’t think you’re church bells,
and if I lose you, I will not fade away to nothing,
gripping tight to something
never meant to be mine.
But I’ll tell you what I do think:
thought I cannot honestly offer you
or sugar-sweet clichés,
I really, really like you.
Let’s go get drinks sometime.