Infatuated

I am infatuated with a boy
because his smile is too big for his face
and it feels like the only thing that’s real,
because his eye color is cerulean
and that’s been my favorite crayon
ever since my grandmother
bought me that set of sixty four,
because he’s so damn beautiful
even though boys aren’t meant to be,
because his hands are big enough
to hold the whole world
and he doesn’t even know
what he wants in them yet.

I wish I could find the courage to crack
my rib cage open for him
and point out all of the ways
that he managed to sneak into my heart
so nothing is misunderstood
or misinterpreted anymore,
but I can’t even speak to him
because my tongue ties itself
into pretty ribbon bows
because he is a gorgeous jigsaw
and I don’t understand him at all,
even after a million glances.

So I’m dissecting every word he says,
every glance in my direction,
and every casual brush of skin
to try and find subliminal messages
even if there aren’t any there,
because I can’t help but hope
that when he figures out
what he wants in his hands—
it’s me.