that I go
— in my room, on the bus, at school
in our secret hideouts that nobody knows
where we whisper
and speak in hushed tones — though no one's there
to look
or overhear our jokes
I write about you everywhere
— on scraps of paper crushed at the bottom of my haversack,
on napkins in fast food restaurants (the ones I steal that no one checks),
on my Calculus notes underneath the repeated scribbles of your name.
I write about you
in novels and essays — the ones our English teacher asks us to hand in
and sometimes, she sings me praises
she tells me that I can write
— that I should teach my friends how
but I can't
and I can't tell her
that it's really not me — it's you
I write about you
on the palm of your hand
— the exact spots that I trace your deep impressions and solid veins
and your calloused fingertips
over and over again
I write about you
from morning till night
10....11....12
I watch the hour hand strike,
sometimes, I don't watch it at all
but I still hear the clock tower outside my window call
It's metronomical, consistent — and it holds me together
on nights
when I can't do it
on my own
I don't get tired
of writing
or rather — of writing about you
I don't get tired
of writing about you
the same way I don't get tired of watching the colours of your eyes
change when you talk about the music you love,
the soft expressions on your face when you think no one's looking,
and the way you put up a façade
of a person I know you're not
— i know it's weird
but it makes me feel special
like there's a secret to you that only I know
I write about you
because it's as real as it gets
— the endless possibilities
that only exist
as fictional characters of
you and I
I write about you
but maybe it's time to stop
for when you chance upon this, I know that you'll know
and maybe I'm not ready to tell you
all that I'm thinking
and all that I hope
but even if I do — let me be the one to read this out to you