Quickly
and almost without any brakes.

There’s no method to it.
It just sort of happens;
Like a freight train, or a pinball.

I barely notice it happening.

Until we’re sitting
In the back of a van,
With the smell of the night still
Clinging to our clothes
And the dark hiding
How I’m holding both your hands –
The one over my shoulder,
And the one on your knee –
And then it hits me too.

There’s no method to it.
It just sort of happens;
Like a creeping illness that lodges in my chest.

I say it with conviction.
I hate not knowing how to express it
In any other way.

It happens quickly,
Without any qualms
And almost with no second thoughts.

(I say it,
Because I mean it.)

I do it with certainty;
Because there must be something special
About a person who makes me smile
Every morning
Simply by looking my way.

There’s no method to it,
Other than the way it happens
So quickly and so surely
That I know I’m stuck.

Advertisements