I don’t know what we were.
We’d laugh for hours,
yet somehow never say anything real.
And still,
I wanted to know you
even before him.
I know you said you were done with relationships.
I know this never would’ve worked.
But it still hurts admitting
I grew attached to us.
Because I could’ve looked at you
and said, without hesitation,
“I think I love you,”
while you’d smile,
scroll past me,
and look for somebody else in the room.
And I wonder,
when you finally are ready,
who’s gonna catch your eye?
Will he make you laugh louder than I could?
Will he hold conversation better,
without all the awkward pauses
I filled with nervousness and hope?
Maybe it really was love,
because even watching you want other people,
I never hated you.
It just hurt.
And strangely,
I don’t regret chasing you.
Not once.
Because only through running after you
did I learn what it meant to fly.
And only through trying to understand you
did I finally understand
what love was.