I remember thinking—she’s different.
She’s graceful. An outcast drifting
beyond the net where the rest of us
learned to swim.
I remember her every angle
walking down the sloped green lawn
the trail of her silk black hair tied to the wind
laughing a secret song.
Maybe she’d love me.
Show me how to grow
into my heart before
I learned to run from it.
That we’d fold like curtains
to hold the morning for ourselves.
It wasn’t long before I asked her
to the dance.
Even less time passed
before she said, no.
I guess that’s why it’s called a crush
A lesson in loving and letting go.
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