What I Know

You smoke menthol cigarettes
and you think I am too smart for you.
When a girl from our writing class
asked how long we had
known each other, she was shocked
to hear that it was only
a couple of months.
When you gave me your number,
I had no intention of calling you.
You drum your foot
against the floor out of habit.
You looked
out the window while a girl
read a story about
rape in front of the class.
You have two small
marks on the right side
of your bottom
lip where the old piercings scarred.
You searched for my favorite
movie in video stores
for three months.

Every morning I
wake up and realize
that the other side of my bed is
nothing but cold sheets and covers
that have not been turned down.
I was only imagining your fingers
tracing my spine, playing
symphonies on my ribcage.
I have spent the last few nights
trying to carve the curve
of your back into my mattress.
We have been having the same
conversations since December,
but none of them have been
whispered into the canyon above
my collarbones. A single spark
could ignite
the nervous electricity
between us.

Come and sleep next to me.
Let me show you
how smart I can be.