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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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Sometimes he’s next to me. Close enough that the air feels different, like something charged is sitting between us. My stomach does that thing, tightens, flutters, not because I like him, not like that. It’s more like my body recognizes something I don’t have the words for. Some part of me is on edge, like I’m waiting for him to speak even though I know he won’t. Other times he’s across from me, just far enough that I can study his face without it being obvious. He always looks a little tired, like his thoughts are too loud. I don’t have a crush on him. It’s not about wanting to hold his hand or hear him say my name. Some people assume girls cant look at a boy without being in love with them. This is not a crush. It’s something else, like I’ve noticed a crack in a painting everyone else says is perfect, and I can’t stop looking at it. Not to fix it. Just to say, I see it too. My boyfriend always jokes when we sit behind behind him in class as he stares at his phone. My boyfriend leans in with that teasing grin as I show him my work, and roars, “Oooooh, someone’s got a crush,” loud, like it’s the most important announcement in the world. I try to shush him or laugh it off, even though it’s not funny. Even though it’s not true. He doesn’t get it. Other people don’t know. To them, I could have a crush. They don’t see that it’s not about love, not about wanting anything from him. It’s about noticing something no one else sees and not knowing what to do with it. I’ve written poems, quiet, careful things about the way this boy carries himself like someone holding invisible weight. My boyfriend skims them, makes another joke, moves on. More playing like I’m just romanticizing some sad boy fantasy. Like I don’t mean every word with the most serious part of me. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about feeling something for him. It’s about feeling something because of him. There’s a difference. A big one. I don’t know why I can’t escape him. He’s not even trying to follow me, I just keep finding him. In the corner of my vision. In the background of my thoughts. In the seat next to mine, the chair on the other side of the table that is always looking right at me, the desk across the room, and the silence between words. I tell myself to stop watching, to just look away, to focus on literally anything else. Then he shifts, or speaks, or rubs his eyes like he didn’t sleep last night, and suddenly I’m staring again. When he talks to me, which happens maybe once a year if the universe is feeling cruel, I go completely still inside. Like I’m made of glass and afraid I’ll shatter if I move wrong. My words trip over themselves, and I smile too much, like I’m trying to pass for normal. I hate it. I hate that he has that kind of effect on me when I don’t even want him to. It’s not love. It’s not some sweet little crush. It’s fascination edged with fear, like watching a star fall out of the sky and not knowing if it’ll burn out or hit the ground. Something about him feels too much like me, and maybe that’s why I can’t look away. It hurts, in a quiet way. The kind of hurt you can’t explain to people who think you’re just being dramatic. The kind of hurt that settles in your chest when someone almost makes sense, and you know you’ll never be brave enough to ask why.

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The boy from my 5 classes again

Sometimes he’s next to me. Close enough that the air feels different, like something charged is sitting between us. My stomach does that thing, tightens, flutters, not because I like him, not like that. It’s more like my body recognizes something I don’t have the words for. Some part of me is on edge, like I’m waiting for him to speak even though I know he won’t. Other times he’s across from me, just far enough that I can study his face without it being obvious. He always looks a little tired, like his thoughts are too loud. I don’t have a crush on him. It’s not about wanting to hold his hand or hear him say my name. Some people assume girls cant look at a boy without being in love with them. This is not a crush. It’s something else, like I’ve noticed a crack in a painting everyone else says is perfect, and I can’t stop looking at it. Not to fix it. Just to say, I see it too. My boyfriend always jokes when we sit behind behind him in class as he stares at his phone. My boyfriend leans in with that teasing grin as I show him my work, and roars, “Oooooh, someone’s got a crush,” loud, like it’s the most important announcement in the world. I try to shush him or laugh it off, even though it’s not funny. Even though it’s not true. He doesn’t get it. Other people don’t know. To them, I could have a crush. They don’t see that it’s not about love, not about wanting anything from him. It’s about noticing something no one else sees and not knowing what to do with it. I’ve written poems, quiet, careful things about the way this boy carries himself like someone holding invisible weight. My boyfriend skims them, makes another joke, moves on. More playing like I’m just romanticizing some sad boy fantasy. Like I don’t mean every word with the most serious part of me. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about feeling something for him. It’s about feeling something because of him. There’s a difference. A big one. I don’t know why I can’t escape him. He’s not even trying to follow me, I just keep finding him. In the corner of my vision. In the background of my thoughts. In the seat next to mine, the chair on the other side of the table that is always looking right at me, the desk across the room, and the silence between words. I tell myself to stop watching, to just look away, to focus on literally anything else. Then he shifts, or speaks, or rubs his eyes like he didn’t sleep last night, and suddenly I’m staring again. When he talks to me, which happens maybe once a year if the universe is feeling cruel, I go completely still inside. Like I’m made of glass and afraid I’ll shatter if I move wrong. My words trip over themselves, and I smile too much, like I’m trying to pass for normal. I hate it. I hate that he has that kind of effect on me when I don’t even want him to. It’s not love. It’s not some sweet little crush. It’s fascination edged with fear, like watching a star fall out of the sky and not knowing if it’ll burn out or hit the ground. Something about him feels too much like me, and maybe that’s why I can’t look away. It hurts, in a quiet way. The kind of hurt you can’t explain to people who think you’re just being dramatic. The kind of hurt that settles in your chest when someone almost makes sense, and you know you’ll never be brave enough to ask why.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things