the problem with walking down the street with you,
is that girls stare.
like, teenage girls
wound tightly in perfumed, eyelined packs.

their eyes examine your stride,
lingering on the confident stretch of your smile,
your eyes reminiscent of a bleeding pen.

but i just ignore the pretty girls
staring at the pretty boy who’s walking next to me
because beautiful people look at other beautiful people all the time.

i remind myself that
i’m the only one close enough to your mouth
to hear how your words come out:
coated in sunshine
like after seventeen years in paradise,
your body has stored up enough heat
that you breathe out warmth with every exhale.
it filters through my spf thirty tinted moisturizer,
coloring my cheeks red.

(how many synonyms are there for glowing?
balmy, flushed, sizzling,
basically, you’re hot.)

the packs of estrogen watch me
briefly
noting the knot of our hands
and they shrug
‘cuz they’ve seen my make before,
blonde hair,
blue eyes,
hips a little too wide.

i’m not a lip reader
but i’m pretty sure i saw a girl on the corner of tenth street openly wonder,
“what’s the beautiful boy doing with the frizzy haired girl?”

so they stare
and you double your stride to keep up with me.

you won’t be seventeen and stunning forever,
but right now,
i’m sixteen and candy coated
and your voice melts everything it reaches.

look, if i was older, i would show you.

everywhere you walk is tinged with light
so it’s the city on a swamp
so my tanktops thin
so they stare

so? let them gawk