dan.

your name is like a thunderstorm in my head.
crashing and swelling and demanding attention.
and I wish I could call (out to) you.
wish I could tell you how intimidating your voice is
when you say the words “I love you”.
but sometimes it’s easier to sit in the corner, shaking.

but I love the way your voice sounds in the car,
powering past the rush of the open windows.
and its crackle over the phone when I hear you smile.
but as soon as its volume drops,
as soon as your piano fingers touch my arm
and your pine tree eyes scan the surface of my pale, pale skin,
I feel like a child looking at a storm.

you have all the right words
when I find myself struggling simply to breathe.

and it’s not fair to you,
to a boy who can play the guitar and understand physics
and think for himself,
to be stuck with a girl like me,
who can do none of those things,
and is just looking for someone to hold her hand when she cries.

and when I say “I love you”,
I know it sounds like an afternoon drizzle,
a joke of the storm that is your voice.
but I mean it with every squeeze of your hand.
with every puzzle piece hug.
and with every attempt
to hold on.