besotted

I cannot voice your name
even though its letters pace
back and forth in my tired brain
when the constellations of freckles
balanced uncertainly on my shoulders
crestfall onto my worn mattress.

It’s for the trepidation
that you will see the way
the corners of my mouth
slowly tuck themselves in,
like strawberries into crepes,
whenever I stretch your syllables
like the sleeves of my sweater.

You cannot know how much
I am besotted with you,
no, not yet,
not yet.