Being slightly in love with you

It is terrifying this slightness.

Being slightly in love with you
frightens me terribly.
I am not a woman worthy of poetry
or songs or Polaroids taken and
taped on walls and refrigerator doors
-capable, fiery, nothing less than
a bundle of morning chatter. Warm
and lovely.

Nonetheless, you are.
You are worth
a thousand more.
You are nothing less than
a drink of sunlight or
a pocketful of memories
kissed by starlit skies.

Do not be slightly in
love with me too. The earth will
shatter underneath my toes
-the sharp remnants breaking
my eggshell of a heartbeat, the
spaces between my fingers will
start to beg for even a slight
smolder of your own -calloused
by strings, made lovely by
afternoon sips of tea.

I might be slightly -and
only slightly- in love with
the thought of you and
all the times you close your eyes
to nap for only a minute or two
but why am I am hearing God’s
whispers of tomorrows
flecked by pointless
unending conversations
that began in our growing list
of phenomenal yesterdays?

Why am searching for your shadow
in my bookshelf and dreaming
of Decembers and Februarys? Why
am I whispering your name
like a prayer in the middle of the
day and biting my lip at the
thought of yours and yours
on mine?

I am slightly in love
with you or maybe
just maybe
much, much
terrifyingly and
dangerously
more
than
so

 

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Published by

cie miraflor

A Filipino at heart and a Thomasian in spirit. A vocalist. A bookworm. A chocoholic. A liar. A dreamer. A coffee addict. A writer of poetry and short stories. A pending Information Technologist. A frustrated programmer. Blinded with love for Batman.

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