Of Various Subjects

I am not going to write about you.

I am going to write about your hands,
and how when they brush my skin, I shiver all over
because it makes me feel that every cell in my body has been rearranged.

I am writing about your smile,
and how it makes the corners of my own mouth turn upward
because it makes me feel connected and secluded and home.

I am writing about your laugh,
and how it makes my head swim within itself
because the music of it makes me feel so light and free.

And how i get butterflies when you look at me,
but I drink in your glances and your stares
like sweet nectar
like sustenance
like life.

And how it makes me feel almost beautiful.

I am writing about how I can't stop thinking about you.
How I see your face in the clouds,
And how the cracks in the pavement spell out your name,
And how the wind rushes softly past, caressing me - and I wish it was you.  

I wish all of it was you.

And I am writing about your hands,
but I'm not going to write about you.

I'm writing about how the autumn,
with its red and gold leaves fluttering down and about and around,
and the scent of spice lingering in the air,
makes me long for things like this.

Or I am writing about the coming winter,
When the snow will arrive
and coat everything in dust from the sky -
Erase the world in white, all white...
And maybe I will have a reason to feel this romantic,
so wistful.

And I am writing about your hands,

but I'm still not writing about you.