A one person love story.
No, I’m not Narcissus, lost to my reflection,
ignorant and apathetic to the world.
But, statistically, my “type” averages out
to “myself.”

Of the five times I’ve fallen in love,
three of five were female.
And three (and a half) were in the same,
broad “please check one of the following”
ethnicity.

With boys, I get tongue-tied,
starstruck by their looks, their kindness.
I shy away, and appreciate from afar.
Blush high on my cheeks,
skin aching.

With girls, I draw closer, mesmerized.
Like a moth toward flame, cliche but true.
Personalities clicking, friendship building,
daydreaming of hypothetical futures
together.

I’ve never looked at any of them
and experienced lust, heat coursing
through my veins, tongue tingling,
as if I’ve drunk the sweetest cocktail,
lingering.

But perhaps, I’d think, if they wanted,
if we ever got that close, if they asked,
fingertips branding desire onto me,
then I’d give it a shot, at least once,
curious.

And then follows, our play house lives,
date nights and meeting families.
How would you-me-two become us-one?
Apartments, and pets, and chore sharing,
compromises.

The problem with being a writer,
stories woven and outlines drafted,
before anything happens in reality.
Futile and foolish, just like every other
love story.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-11-28)

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