"She Taught Me Silence"
The Student:
I was late
not for class,
but for the idea of her.
By the time I understood
what her glances cost me,
I was already
paying in pieces of myself.
She stood by the window,
sunlight threatening to touch her,
but never brave enough
just like me.
I learned to sit in silence,
not because I had nothing to say,
but because she taught me
that want can speak louder
when caged behind the lips.
My notebooks filled with her:
the sharp slope of her signature,
the way her voice dropped
when she read poetry aloud
like she knew
which words should blemish.
I didn't mean to crave her.
I meant to admire.
But her beauty didn't settle
it invaded.
Now I cross out sentences
that sound too much like confessions,
and replace them with metaphors
that still scream her name.
She once asked me
if I believed all stories end in pain.
I said no
but I lied.
Because she touches me
only in dreams.
And every morning,
I wake up undone.