**A poetry piece by Cecilia Ruvinsky**
He is sleeping,
and I can hear him breathe.
He has just confessed his feelings,
but they’re not for me and that’s ok,
because they really aren’t my size.
But I can hear him breathe,
and I try not to make too much noise.
He has to exist in about twenty minutes,
and I have to exist all the time,
so the least I can do is let him forget
about stale lamplight fingerprints for the both of us.
I don’t think he knows how much I love him.
It’s not with water gun fights or powdered sugar,
but with sacrifices and migraines and platonic devices in between.
I don’t think anybody knows, really,
not just him-
how much love I have inside.
As I hear him breathe,
I feel it like laundry quarters rolling in my chest.
I love like lantern eyes and mashed bananas,
squeaky toys I may never see again,
I love like Spanish songs that crack my skull,
and pins I pin to worn out denim jackets.
I love like flamingo shirts and sticky bonfires,
like freckles in the shape of constellations
that brush my face with watermelon wind,
I love like Scorpio sun, astrophysics,
sarcastic mistletoe that makes the fairy lights twinkle
and my top lip tremble.
I have so much love,
and I love loudly,
with Christmas movies
and fingers that spread the dye into my hair,
with Mom and Dad and Mary Jane
and She Who Smiles in Burgundy,
and I’m afraid to see it leave,
so I chain it to my chest
and cry as it’s bones rattle hollow.
I love him as he wakes,
and still as he falls back asleep,
and I love enough so nobody ever has to feel
like they have to love me back,
but lately I’m learning that they do –
and suddenly it feels like flowers are growing out of my skin.