Anna Elias Poet Free verse

You don’t notice

I am confessing.
You just don’t notice it.

All these poems I write
talking about your smile,
your charm,
your intelligence,
your gorgeous blue eyes,
talking about how I go crazy
just at the thought of you

You think I only talked to you
because I was interested in the things you liked.

maybe I did like hearing about the bands you loved, maybe I did like hearing about your niche interests.

But the truth is
I wouldn’t have cared about any of it
until you came along.

You made all those things feel important
simply because they belonged to you.

That’s what you don’t understand.

It was never really about the music.
Never about the stories.
Never about the poems themselves.

It was always about you.

Every conversation,
every poem,
every hidden metaphor
somehow circled back to you.

Because this is my only way of confessing.

I wish I was less of a coward,
I wish I could just look at you and say it to your face,
say all the things I bury inside these lines instead.

But every time I try,
the words disappear before they can leave my mouth.

So I hide them here instead.
In poems.
In metaphors.
In desperate little hints
I hope you’ll someday understand.

And every time I look at you,
my eyes drift toward your lips
and for a moment I think about kissing you.

But something always stops me.

Maybe it’s the feeling
that I could never truly be enough for you.

I thought being good at sports would make me feel worthy.
I thought doing so many of them,
pushing myself harder and harder,
would finally make me feel impressive enough.

I thought being one of the smartest
would make me easier to love.

I thought doing my hair nicely
would make me look more attractive in your eyes.

I even tried being more energetic,
pretending I wasn’t tired all the time,
because I thought maybe if I became brighter
you would look at me as if I was someone you wanted to be around all the time.

But then I hear the way you used to talk about her.

The way you used to say you miss her.
The way your face softens
when you talk about how happy she made you feel.

In your old poems, even if they were written a long time ago,
I can’t help but feel
you still miss her.

And suddenly all the effort feels pointless.

Because no matter how hard I try to become someone lovable,
I don’t know if I could ever make you as happy
as she once did.

And this
this is my confession.

I just hope one day
you read these words carefully enough
to realize
they were always written about you.

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