Little Love

I'm here in his car, and it's freezing cold

I'm just barely seventeen years old

The way he laughs at everything, and anything; if there’s silence, he fills it.

He hugs like he can’t believe it’s happening

It gets easier in waves, like when you sit in the ocean

and feel the push and pull of the water.

I used to drown, but lately there have been

no bad dreams, no horror,

We talked it over one day and we said we could try.

So we did, and so it works, and so each day he blinds me,

Like uneven sun and the big blue sky.

So it turns out I’m a pretty fragile thing,

Having all this to tell him yet saying nothing

I’m much better at writing, at editing and cutting, but

words on a page, on text, on paper, mean nothing

If I don’t get to look in his eyes while he smiles,

is any of this writing worthwhile?