"in response to you're in a car with a beautiful boy"

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. 

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root n your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

You're in a car with a beautiful boy, except he doesn't know he's beautiful.

You're in a car with a beautiful boy who thinks he's mediocre and you're both choking down awkward stammers and stutters, because these days, "I love you" is a dangerous fucking thing to say. You're trembling and he's trying his best not to mutter anything stupid, so he cranks up the stereo louder: Fall Out Boy is screaming: "Kiss her, kiss her," and despite setting his clock early, he is too afraid, he is always late. The timing is perfect but he's used to feeling like imperfection, so he's going to let it slip away. You're going to think something is wrong with you and he's gong to pray that he hasn't managed to fuck everything up again. You can see how his palms are nervous because he wants to cup your cheek and kiss you like you would cease to exist any second. But he doesn't. 

You don't love him. 
He doesn't love you. 

You both know there is not a word n the dictionary that honestly tells of the earthquakes in your lower stomachs, how your hearts are beating like bullets, how you're both sitting in a car and think other other is beautiful. 

So you do nothing. 
Because nothing could ruin this moment


you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she is reading other people’s words like she will die trying, voice a honeysuckle flower with the sweet leeched out to bleed against your treacherous gums, sorrow beating against the windshield like a trapped bird and she won’t tell you she loves you because she doesn’t.

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and it is the first time and it is the last time, and you will be in a dozen cars with a dozen beautiful girls before the next birthday you can imagine but none of them will look like her, un-shed tears catching the orange glow of the passing streetlights and fingers flexing against the dogeared pages of a book of words she used to gasp into the air between you while your hands flexed and bent inside her, and she won’t tell you she loves you because she never has.

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and you are throwing spent cliches at the wall like cooked spaghetti to see what will stick while her fingers trace lines of you are nothing  into the scarred-sobbed skin on the inside of your thigh. 

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and you think that there are days when poetry is just something to say, effervescent white noise for the young and desperately searching, and she won’t tell you she loves you because it would be too easy.

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she won’t tell you she’s leaving, but she’s leaving.
you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she won’t tell you she’s sorry, but she’s sorry. 

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and the lilt of the words she’s borrowing to fill a silence that will ache out wide inside of you for weeks and months and years to come, will taste of honeysuckle in the darkness of a dozen cars against the lips of a dozen beautiful girls, is anything but poetry

(and you won’t tell her you love her, but you love her)

you are in a car with a beautiful girl and she always will be bleeding out between your treacherous gums in borrowed words.
you are in a car with a beautiful girl and every third piece of spaghetti you hurl at the wall like a spent cliche will stick and stay, will hang in the air until it dries into the wallpaper, until dust forms around it, until the far wall of your only kitchen is a masterpiece in false starts and overdone romances, and you will open your mouth and you will open your mouth and you will find yourself in a car with a girl who has never been beautiful, and you will open your mouth, and she will open your mouth

and neither one of you will say you’re in a car with a beautiful boy.