The Poet

"Write it for me", he says, making her smile and comforting her with 4 small words.

Pen goes to paper, but somehow writing it for him is more difficult than writing it for a room full of people. His opinion alone matters more than the opinions of 24 relative strangers, and it bothers her that she doesn't know why.

She is by no means a foolish girl, but she certainly feels foolish when contemplating thoughts of him. A smile or a compliment from him causes desire and warm happiness to curl in her stomach like a sleeping cat... and being ignored by him produces an odd, bothersome feeling, like knocking the funnybone. Silly, she thinks, straight up foolish. Impossible to feel this way. Wrong to feel this way. He won't be hers, he can't be hers, and she can't be his.

So why not just let it go?

Why not move on?

Because, quite frankly, she doesn't want to. What she wants to let go of is the safety bar she's been clutching all her life. She wants to release her heart, to finally go for something she really wants without thought of consequences or fear or pain or anything, to just feel and give and take without ...

Sense?