I Think About Him, A Lot

He loves to hear me sing my songs in Spanish,

the way that I make magic,

drinking strawberry milkshake,

while I grant his every aching wish.

Musing on our future,

I pretend to be asleep,

when he wakes up in the morning,

so he’ll tell me that I’m pretty,

when he thinks nobody hears him.

I think I only want to hold him.

I think I only want to hold onto him,

because he’s the only thing that seems worth it,

in such a long time.

He says he likes my Grandma’s ring,

the way it sits upon my hand,

whispering to wayward wolves,

that it’s never going to happen,

(he has never said this was the reason,

but the common misinterpretation is the reason I like it, so I’m assuming he’s fond for that reason too).

He knows her true story,

reading every page,

with great interest and excitement,

as I explain every way that my body,

my accessories,

say that I am just for him.

I think I like to wear it for him.

I think I like him to know that I always say “No”,

when the wolves are out,

wandering,

and my red bow is a red flag,

because we both know,

that the wolves are not the real danger,

and the pain truly comes,

from the person you trusted with your heart,

when they decide to go rogue,

so,

I want him to know,

that I always say…

Well,

you know.

He said that he really likes me.

He said that a while ago,

so I can only assume that by now he really, really likes me,

because he keeps texting me,

and slipping into my dreams,

so I start saying his name in my sleep,

and when I walk down the street.

A hymn made of honey,

aspirational manifestation,

a blaring siren,

that sounds as red,

as my bow looks

(that can make sense. If you know, you know)

because I want him to know.

I think I want him to know.

I think I want him to know, that I think about him,

a lot.