Ten.

A young girl, a pink bathroom, a dark corner.

Nine.

I never thought I would metamorphose into this being; you only find me in dumb teen romance films. You are worth living over, fast forwarding passed my adolescence.

Eight.

Desire pulsing through my veins to my pendulum heart are pumping earthquakes. All for you.

Seven.

I find myself drawn like waves to the moon. Cerulean, smooth silk converge with abrasive, crude craters.

Six.

I ache for you as much as the permeating pink particles love to dust your cheeks when I…

Five.

I can’t deny the growth of the goodness in your speech. God, unearth the language of the lilies.  Lodge it in my throat, reach in, deep in.

Four.

I want to talk to God. I want to talk to you too. You too? Me too.

Three.

Your angelic orchestra of tone composed of heart-stringed instruments: Harp, violin, cello. Elsewhere, I hear the steady metronome clock.

Two.  

High school is not real life; real life is not high school. Only tests of faith and of trust matter.

One.

As I carve this poem, know it is all for you, you, you. Always.