One Year Isn't Enough

I met you a year ago.

Last March was thunderstorms and cherry blossoms

and going to Preston every day and

lingering a little longer each time I talked to you.

This is the first time you said hello

and how we'd talk about nonsense like frat formals and parties

because you did not know me yet.

It took months for me to understand how I feel,

but I still don't know how to tell you.

You are too rare and too extraordinary for me to lose.

One year isn't enough.

I love when you laugh unexpectedly,

that nothing escapes your notice,

the way you're equally predictable and mysterious,

when your guard is down and we talk like little kids.

I don't know that we are forever.

But we're laying on playground slides full of nervous excitement

and every time I think you're leaving —

you leave the taste of heartbreak in my mouth.

This is the first time we romanticized

my unpredictable, prickly personality and

made it something that could break.

These are the soft conversations we have,

those in-between moments,

feeling like it's just us in a crowded room.

I care so deeply for you that I'm afraid to say anything.

I hope you feel it too.

Sometimes I think this is all in my head.

Other times, you'll look at me with a certain tenderness

and I know that I'm not dreaming.