It seems like I can't go long without finding myself hopelessly crushed out on some girl at school. More often than not, these girls are either already spoken for, not interested in me (aren't they all?), or both.
For once, the girl I like appears not to qualify for any of the above. Of course, I've been wrong before. If you remember the last time a crush inspired a poem, I later discovered she had a boyfriend, to whom she's since become engaged. Well, that made it easy to move on from her.
I suspect I'll be wrong about this girl too, because this aligning of the stars, as it were, feels a little too perfect. Either she won't want to be my girlfriend, or my parents will interfere with our relationship if it even begins, or...something, anything, could dash all my hopes and dreams again.
Before that happens, though, I'm going to put my thoughts down as another poem. She may never see it, but maybe someday...
First crush is obvious.
But when is it first love?
When they love you back?
In which case, I've still not had my first love.
Trust me when I say
I'm a lovesick moron.
You could see that for yourself anytime I opened my mouth.
I spout off half-formed garbage.
Even if it's fully formed, it's trash.
Or I shovel in tasty trash.
You're the one who said you wanted street tacos.
Next chance I got, I blew seven bucks on three street tacos.
Messy, meaty, spicy belly bombs, they were.
Of course I tried to play it cool for you
Even as I dripped in sweat.
I'd have shared them with you.
That was my idea all along.
But as luck would have it, you couldn't enjoy them.
The day before, you were sick.
You couldn't come to class.
You were still sick that day,
And you had to present an essay.
And worst of all? You didn't get the chance to present that day.
But I had my way of making you feel better.
When I dropped my umpteenth joke
About being Andrew Garfield's secret twin,
You complained you had no celebrity lookalike.
I was quick to say, "What about Grant Gustin's girlfriend?"
And I showed you her picture
As she held the man's lethally adorable dog.
(One of them, anyway.)
Your response: "What are you, crazy?
I don't look like her!"
"She's a-a-a 10!
I'm maybe a 6 or 7!
Look at this woman! She's gorgeous!
I'd date her!"
My thoughts, I didn't air them.
I should have - you'd probably have appreciated my wit.
"Yeah, so? I'd date Grant Gustin given half a chance.
Hashtag #ManCrush, and it's not even Monday.
But the point is,
I didn't say that.
But I hope I warmed your heart anyway.
Just like you warmed mine by saying,
"At least I know I'm kind of Grant Gustin's type."
Which is good for me because the more I can look like Gustin,
Does that mean I'm your type?
If so, I'd be surprised.
In our class alone, there are plenty of "types" to go around.
There's the skinny, chain-smoking Greek anarchist
With all the ink.
There's the baby-faced dude always wearing blue scrubs
Like he stepped off the set of Scrubs.
There's the tall-haired guy with the glasses and the Vulcan eyebrows.
Calling Tom Keen...
And then there's the guy with whom you have
What could be the start of a verbal slap-slap-kiss relationship.
He's a funny guy, and undeniably handsomer than I will ever be,
But sometimes I think he digs too hard
Under your fingernails.
Also, he's so...old.
Parks and Rec rules say the age difference between you and him
Would be too creepy.
But remember one of the other essays we workshopped?
All that woman's first few lovers were "types."
"The Right One" wasn't a type.
I wanna be your Right One.
Would I be so lucky as to find mine in you
If you were my first real love?
I have to wonder.
Especially because of how much you look like
The female lead in my book.
My passion project.
Not a total, spot-on resemblance,
But more than any other non-famous person I've ever seen.
(If it helps,
Know the woman I had in mind was Chloe Bennet.
Daisy Johnson, you know.)
As spunky as you are,
I doubt you're as sparky as Fionna Lee.
Your hands aren't as warm as hers.
But then again,
I only know from the one time you casually brushed my bare arm
The one day it was warm enough for me to go
"Sun's out, guns out"
Before the end of tanktop season.
You wanted to prove you were cold under the A/C.
Maybe you don't have Fionna's fire.
But maybe you have Daisy's Inhuman Quake skills?
In which case,
Could I be your sparky Sparkplug?
Or, even better, your burning-heart Ghost Rider?
(Hey, don't hate. I ship 'em.)
If you didn't know,
I'm the weird boy who shipped himself with Daisy in his fanfic.
Himself as an Inhuman with blood magic.
(Hmm. That could also make a good ship name for us, LOL.)
Ironic that I would be the fire in our potential relationship.
Sure, I was born under a fire sign in the heart of summer.
But I've long identified more with ice.
Or maybe you're the ice.
I don't know anything anymore.
But I know one thing.
That creative nonfiction class of ours?
You've counted up your demons and shown them to us all.
And then some.
You told me a secret you wish you didn't know.
I feel horrible for not responding in kind.
The best way to do this for me
Would be for me to show you my books.
We could both psychoanalyze me that way.
But then the ending.
I promise, I wrote that long before I met you.
And then we could meet up somewhere.
Except my place.
My parents won't approve. They never do.
They can't stand the thought of me having a life.
Especially a love life.
Nothing to do with you, I swear.
But at your place? We could Netflix. And chill.
Literally, of course.
And maybe, eventually, figuratively too.
Last night, I dreamed of something in between
Those two extremes.
Maybe you could introduce me to Daredevil
And finally let me see
If I get cuddling right when I write.
Let me be your five-ten, 180-pound teddy bear.
I really like you.
Please show me how good we could be together.