Sometimes I Wish You Did.
you don't know what you do to me
It’s gonna be a Tuesday tomorrow. I’ll see you at the end of the day. Don’t you know it always makes my day, seeing you? Don’t you know it crushes me every single time I see you with her? Sometimes I wonder if you notice me at all. Maybe you see right through me. I’m not entirely sure, but I always feel like it’s the latter. And that just tears through me every time I think about it.
You have no idea what you do to me, how you make me feel. I’ve only known you for two weeks and you’re already driving me insane and just the thought of you sends my emotions into a wild frenzy. Sometimes I think I’ll swoon at the sight of you because maybe the butterflies and birds that are taking off in my stomach are too much for me to handle. My pulse races. My heart stops. Everything starts to make sense. I start to walk towards you. You smile and wave. I grin and raise my hand to wave back to you.
Then she walks into your arms. You kiss her forehead. My heart drops. She talks about how much she loves your mom. And I was so close, so close. It hurts. My friends laugh at me. They don’t get it, they don’t get how much I like you. I’ve only known you for two weeks. That’s the best and worst part of it all. I’ve only known you for two weeks and I like you already but I wear my heart on my sleeve and I fall hard and fast. There’s no way you could possibly like me. But I’ve only known you for two weeks, so maybe you could like me. Maybe you could grow used to my quirky habits and my fucked up personality and all the baggage I carry. I’m already used to your crooked smile and the dimple in your left cheek and the way your eyes crinkle.
She’s beautiful. She’s blonde and tall and smart and funny and has boobs and “a nice butt.” I’m not any of those things. I’m not like her. I’m that one awkward girl in the background that likes to read and write and listen to indie music like some kind of hipster or whatever. I’m flat-chested and I have a nonexistent butt. I’m not a cheerleader. People don’t get my jokes unless they’ve known me long enough to understand my odd sense of humor.
You don’t know what you do to me. Sometimes I wish you did.
I’ll go to all your hockey games. I don’t care where they are, I promise I’ll be there, cheering in the stands and wearing a too-big self-made jersey with your name and number on the back. When that puck sails into the goal and the crowd goes wild during your hat trick, they’ll all throw their hats into the rink at the same time. I’ll wait for a little bit till I throw mine off.
I’ll help you with French. Comme çi comme ça does not sound like come-ee-cee come-ee-sa, but maybe you knew that. Maybe you were just trying to be funny. I thought it was adorable.
I want to be your number one fan. I want to be your tutor. I want to be your best friend, your confidante, your girlfriend, all of that. I want to fight and laugh and cry with you. I want to be the one you argue with about the Flyers and Blackhawks, I want to be the one whose smile drives you insane.
You really don’t know what you do to me. Sometimes I wish you did.
You have no idea what you do to me, how you make me feel. I’ve only known you for two weeks and you’re already driving me insane and just the thought of you sends my emotions into a wild frenzy. Sometimes I think I’ll swoon at the sight of you because maybe the butterflies and birds that are taking off in my stomach are too much for me to handle. My pulse races. My heart stops. Everything starts to make sense. I start to walk towards you. You smile and wave. I grin and raise my hand to wave back to you.
Then she walks into your arms. You kiss her forehead. My heart drops. She talks about how much she loves your mom. And I was so close, so close. It hurts. My friends laugh at me. They don’t get it, they don’t get how much I like you. I’ve only known you for two weeks. That’s the best and worst part of it all. I’ve only known you for two weeks and I like you already but I wear my heart on my sleeve and I fall hard and fast. There’s no way you could possibly like me. But I’ve only known you for two weeks, so maybe you could like me. Maybe you could grow used to my quirky habits and my fucked up personality and all the baggage I carry. I’m already used to your crooked smile and the dimple in your left cheek and the way your eyes crinkle.
She’s beautiful. She’s blonde and tall and smart and funny and has boobs and “a nice butt.” I’m not any of those things. I’m not like her. I’m that one awkward girl in the background that likes to read and write and listen to indie music like some kind of hipster or whatever. I’m flat-chested and I have a nonexistent butt. I’m not a cheerleader. People don’t get my jokes unless they’ve known me long enough to understand my odd sense of humor.
You don’t know what you do to me. Sometimes I wish you did.
I’ll go to all your hockey games. I don’t care where they are, I promise I’ll be there, cheering in the stands and wearing a too-big self-made jersey with your name and number on the back. When that puck sails into the goal and the crowd goes wild during your hat trick, they’ll all throw their hats into the rink at the same time. I’ll wait for a little bit till I throw mine off.
I’ll help you with French. Comme çi comme ça does not sound like come-ee-cee come-ee-sa, but maybe you knew that. Maybe you were just trying to be funny. I thought it was adorable.
I want to be your number one fan. I want to be your tutor. I want to be your best friend, your confidante, your girlfriend, all of that. I want to fight and laugh and cry with you. I want to be the one you argue with about the Flyers and Blackhawks, I want to be the one whose smile drives you insane.
You really don’t know what you do to me. Sometimes I wish you did.