You’re concentrating on your computer right now, sifting through your extensive iTunes library, searching for some suitable music. You’re sitting cross-legged on the blue rug over the hardwood floor, in your familiar gray Ecko sweatshirt and your black Tokidoki tee, the one where the green cartoon dinosaur is stepping all over a city. The computer is casting a warm glow over your tanned face, and you’re talking about something, Howl’s Moving Castle perhaps, or the merits of this particular Death Cab for Cutie song.


Suddenly, the rich sounds of violin mixed with Lupe Fiasco’s “The Show Goes On” fills your room and you start bouncing along to the music. It’s a beautiful remix, and I tell you so.


“I made it,” you grin proudly, and there’s a chink in your armor there, a smidgeon of vulnerability, a little kid looking for approval. You’re always so mysterious, and you seem so tough and robotic; it’s hard to imagine you having real, deeper feelings. Do you?


But I compliment you, because it is put together quite well, and inside I’m marveling on discovering yet another of your talents.


You focus on your computer again, and I stare at every one of your well-watched features; almost in a sort of awe, I admit. Your jet black hair is gelled artfully into a faux hawk. (“I only use water,” you claim, straight-faced, to everyone.) Your straight nose. Your almond-shaped eyes are bright and intelligent, a clear, startling tea color in the right light. Your lips are pink and full and soft-looking. Do guys use lip balm? Would it be weird to ask you? Your collarbone looks delicate; it’s less tan than your face and arms, and it looks sexy, peeking out of the round collar of your t-shirt. I want to lean on those broad shoulders, feel the muscles beneath your ever-present Ecko sweatshirt. What would it be like to wrap my arms around you and lightly touch your toned abs? I know they’re there. I’ve seen them through two years of physical education swimming; your stomach is lean, hard and defined. I want to lean close to you, breathe in your smell. I want to reach for one of your hands, thin and brown, veined and strong, and almost graceful as they conduct the music furiously. I want to run my fingers over your face, grasp your jaw, whisper in your ear as we lean in for a kiss. I bite my lip in contemplation of you.


You turn toward me now, suddenly, waking me from this trance.


“What are you doing?” You ask me, all curious.


I look at you again; take in all these comfortable details of you, your questioning face, your hair, your clothes, your personality.


“Nothing,” I reply with an innocent smile, as I hide this document from you.


I wonder if you’ll ever find out how I feel about you. I wonder if I’ll ever let you know.

But most of all, I wonder if you’ll ever feel the same.