There is a girl in my physics class
With a rainbow wristband
From the LGBT center.
And I shall confess,
It’s hard to listen to the theory of gravity
(Which has no physical evidence of existence
Except that it doesn’t ever not exist)
As my own very gay (brown) eyes
Gravitate towards hers, and more so,
Her rainbow wristband,
What if I passed a note
And, more so,
What if it was actually smooth?
Maybe she’ll tell me on the seven hour drive
Back to my house in New York
Isn’t too bad with the unfocused glimmer
Of Christmas lights
As my fingers trace the roads of her palm
A map leading me to familiarity:
This Must Be The Place.
The comfortable quiet hum of the car
Has replaced my longing
In the quiet of the night
That I’ve shared a bed with
A test to see how hopeful you are
(Or how many times you’ve broken):
Do you easily excite over
Something new, something more,
Or wish to go back to the beginning?
(And if the answer to both
Is the same human
You are utterly, indefinitely, breathlessly,
And in the morning,
Sunday mornings are reserved
For all that actually makes one happy
To exist and exist amongst,
No room for sloppy, drunk Fridays
Or sleepy-coffee Mondays,
I’ll think of you.
Her is just a three letter word
Until “who do you love more?”
All past pain re-invited
Like an old acquaintance
Who knows more about you
Than you remembered of their existence
If for a physics morning
What would’ve happened
If she forgot that rainbow wristband.
All sleepy, imagined situations considered,
On the last day
Of the final exam
As blurry equations and simple numbers
Twisted and turned
Amidst the never-ending sea
Of caffeine keeping my brain
I’d never been more excited
For someone to ask for a pencil.