An Unrequited Love Poem

See, I shouldn't be writing to you,
because then I'll just feel even quieter than before.

But I am,
because your hands always smell like freshly mown grass.
The feeling in my stomach when I'm with you
is like that feeling I get where I just know
that God painted all his children's eyes,
one by one.

I'm writing to you for a multiplicity of reasons,
one of which being that I am quite frustrated
because my computer has a smaller vocabulary than I do.
At the moment, it's telling me that
"multiplicity"
is not a word.

Another one is that existence,
for me,
is summed up in laying
on the grass
in the middle of spring and
looking up at the moon that I wish was you.

I don't know
what this letter was
supposed
to
accomplish,
except that I think it might be a love letter.

My feet are covered in dirt because
I spent all this morning weeding.
I don't know why that's important,
maybe it actually isn't important,
but I sometimes think I tell you things
not to speak
but to speak to you.

Today I sat in the middle of what some might call
a "rich neighborhood",
you know,
with the huge houses
and the comfortable mothers
and the fancy beach cruisers
and Mazdas in the garage.
And it struck me that there may be
a father on this road,
with a huge house
and also a huge debt,
stressing about how he can't pay it.

I don't know why I told you that either.
My words are everywhere today.
(Always.)

Anyway, I think that the way life is
is a beautiful thing.
And also, you.
I think you are a beautiful thing.
Whenever I see a butterfly, I think of you,
and I am so sorry that's not very manly.
It might have something to do with the fact that it has wings.

Love From
Jessie