It ain’t love,
But it’s some sort of admiration.
It’s diving into his eyes and swimming in his view,
It’s leaving me hanging as he wanders off without me.
It’s that subconscious longing and that crippling fear of being left behind.
It’s reaching out, wanting the echoes of my voice to hit his back.
It’s the urge of my sound waves, in the shape of a shaking hand,
Grabbing onto the hem of his shirt, pulling his attention back to me.