The other day when I told you I wrote a poem, it was about you. We were friends in school, but then I left and didn’t talk to you for about 2 years. I liked you throughout college, but was afraid to be close to you because I had a boyfriend. You know this, though. You know that I have a huge embarrassing crush on you, and that every time we hang out I wish I could kiss you. I know you can feel it.
It sucks, you know? Because I’m not used to liking someone who just does not have any interest in me in that way. I can see that when we make eye contact, and you know I want to kiss you, you look back at me like you’re bored of the fact that this always happens. I feel like the biggest dork.
I like you a whole lot. I think it’s neat hearing about all your problems and anxieties and your worries about school and art and life because I think the same things. I worry about the same things. And it’s comforting, actually.
I like you because you like Maine, and you like stormy weather, and you always wear a flannel shirt and ridiculous tight jeans, and your dumb v neck shirts (yeah, I even like those), and your old black hat that you lost, and your messy hair, and your huge dark eyes, and your quiet, almost toneless voice, and your awkwardness with meeting people. I like that you like old country songs. I like that one time you let me borrow a Dvorak record. I like how you said you would come visit me even though I didn’t expect you to want to. I like that you want to swim out to an island and camp on it. With me. I like your lightweight lack of tolerance for alcohol. I like how you like punk music and I still don’t, but it’s endearing in the ways that you said it always is for everyone. I like that you talk about sex so much.
I want you to know that it really gets me when you talk about sex. Especially when you were talking about how you wanted to fuck a different girl every night just because you had a new bed that was yours. We both know you wouldn’t probably, but for some reason it was sexy anyway. I almost wish you wouldn’t bring these things up. Every time you start talking about sex I want to grab you and kiss you and tear your clothes off and have aggressive, desperate, amazing sex until we can’t move or think anymore and fall asleep instantly so we don’t have to be awkward about it. I want to keep being friends with you and have sex with you every day and not have to talk about it and just let the relationship evolve from there into a perfect, “I want to be with you forever” relationship.
I want you to love me. I want you to love my art and my movies. But genuinely love them the way that I love yours. I think the differences in our taste is refreshing. I think it would have been unfortunate to one day think I loved a person who made and liked the same type of art as me. It would be boring and annoying and I’d never learn anything. I think we would do better because we both like making and seeing art, and together we would just like and see double the amount that we would separately.
I have a very idealized vision of what being with you would be like. But when I think about it realistically, I feel like it would be calm, and comforting… I feel like neither of us would feel pressured to do or be anything in particular, and we would just enjoy each other’s company, and be there to talk when we needed it. That’s the way that things are now. Why can’t you like me? Ha, I know that sounds pathetic.
I like you. A ton. I hope you don’t get annoyed by it or think it’s childish in any way. And I hope that if you decide to never like me in that way that it doesn’t ruin our friendship. Because you mean a lot to me.
This is the poem I wrote you. I won’t ever show it to anyone, but here it is, on the internet:
What if you had a pillowcase
And we could swim without climbing too high
Without the air getting thinner
And the danger of crowds that were not our own
What if I had waited—
Would the stars have gelled and turned
A glassy marble sheen above our heads,
Our footsteps powder brown beneath them?
I think we would have carved a yellow map,
Warm and twisting, long and light and thin.
The pattern of the stretching dark would soften
The breezy fabric of it floating, gently
A wooden, musty damp and scratching smell
Would pile into corners while I watched you—
A tin and velvet sound of thread and needles
Would sing and soothe your rougher, able hands
I’m sure that this is every embarassing thing I have ever wanted to say about you. I kind of hope that someday I can tell you these things and you will find it flattering. I know that this probably won’t happen.
I like you anyway.