When I catch myself instinctively writing thank you.

It makes me wonder how I feel about you.

I can’t smell your hair,

I can’t feel your palms,

I can’t see the look in your eyes when I prompt you again.

I’m not here to make you feel,

I’m not here to make you understand,

I just want to wait for

you.

To stare at my phone while you think away,

prodding in that deep grey mind of yours,

my readymade Duchamp piece,

you are amazing.

you know that right?

That you’re special to me.

I’m sure you did.

Working diligently like the man I wish to be.

Coming home to you is like brushing my teeth,

it’s like rubbing all the grime out my mouth

even if all I’m doing is motioning back and forth.

I think you would be brunette with

dark brown eyes,

and a smile that could let me know I’m okay,

and hands that tell me everything I could ever need to know,

and I know I would feel understood because

when don’t you?

If I got down to my knees and worshipped you,

then would you feel confounded,

would tears stream down your bumpy peach cheeks,

would you reveal a crooked smile,

gaps galore.

If I could sit next to you on the school bus.

Spew my problems like a water fountain,

rest my arms on your bent knees,

and smell your sweet vanilla perfume,

would you let me reach into your heart and feel the tick of a

human touch.

Don’t worry, this one isn’t potent.

But--

I’m not here to caress your cheek and sing sweet nothings to your ear,

I can’t make metaphors of relationships for books I don’t have the patience to read,

I can’t tell you unbridled thoughts that haven’t been combed through,

I can’t lay out a picnic with steps I don’t have,

and feelings I can’t feel.

When I stare at the words,

Thank You.

I wonder,

if you feel the cold touch of my fingertips aiming for the top right of my keyboard.

Do you feel the way I do?

Does your clockwork heart spin faster?

Thank You!

Zahab Ali ‘28

Seeds