If I were to tell you what races through my mind when you look at me so,
what my fingers ache to do when you turn and walk away,
you’d think me indecent, and it would be salacious,
you would call it unbecoming of a young lady,
so I ball my hands into fists when you walk by,
lest my arms raise of their own accord
and I caress your nape to have you turn and look at me.
But what I’d give for the courage to look at you once,
without feeling the blood in my neck rush too fast,
but until then my nails dig into my palms,
and I calm to the sound of your receding footsteps,
knowing that you couldn’t possibly hear my heart pounding,
threatening to jump out of my skin and away from it’s home.
I call you Ares in the quiet of my mind and-
I breath soft, muffled, nervous laughter at your earthy humour,
Shield my eyes under my hair and look away for fear that-
They speak too much, too soon.
And I read Troilus and Cressida in bed,
Knowing under the safety of my sheets, and in my dreams,
That Shakespeare won’t break my heart.