You speak to me
for the very first time.
My eyes leap
to your face
as my mind ghosts across the possibilities
of you
and me.
Then, I answer.
“The homework is
page 97, 1 through 11.”
You nod.
When you turn back around,
my smile dies
away from yours.

Take two:
discussing TV.
You may be smart, but
you majorly suck
at dissecting the plot of “Lost.”
Soon, you abandon me,
off to lunch
with your friends.
I stare at my PB&J
and think of how
you'll probably never be
mine.

Truthfully, your speech
on the recovery of the U.S. economy
is just a little
boring. But
as I trace your name
across the desktop,
I decide
that I could listen to you
count every star in the sky
and still long
for your voice.