Wearing feelings is fashion

Yes, yes, it is a fact I avoid

and yes, yes, this spacing should make me devoid

of her, or realize who she is and what she has and how her and I won’t make it cause we’ll drown in the river or something and we’ll never make it, never

but it won’t.

This spacing only fills in a little bit of that void.

She, husband-of-forever-years-having, and me, stupid-cupid-crush-on-my-sleeve-clad, aren’t getting anywhere

I joke and I blow the breeze with her

and she laughs, all-sweet, and I smile and am chilled to my bone-cold-selfless hold,
and I look a bit, at her vile violet-chipping finger nail polish, and laugh, not-so-sweet, but a long-drawn-out laugh, and she looks, crooked, crock pot, and says,

“I wish I could tell what people were thinking,” and she readjusts her lips, as if they were out of place, which they weren’t, cause they were and are damn perfect, and I respond,

“Me too,” and condense my stare, as pensive as it can get, and I wonder, “Does she get it?” but there’s no way, could she get it, does she get it, oh god, oh god, I hope she gets it.

She smiles, and she gets it, but it’s not a break-off-your-honeymoon-and-vows-kind-of get it. It’s an, “Okay. I get it,” flirty smile. Flirty howl.

“Tell me what you’re thinking!” – kind of get it.