a poem written in the afternoon

College Relations

with the rush of semestered classes
paper, projects, printings of assigned readings
that i read and waste into the trash three days past
afternoons drawing squares upon the sidewalk
with friends who only desire a moment of youth
after super and before the work begins
hopscotch in the collegiate world
that attracts the unknown peer to marvel and try
a game just difficult enough
before continuing on to their dorm room,
study group, or work-out regimen
with schedules and subjects to learn and discuss
it is hard to keep up with the calmer moments
like this one here

to be in love steps quiet, understanding, into the background
of the academic clusters, the social demands
and knows that every now and again we'll return
to the moments of acknowledgement
like this one here
lying on a knowing bed in a rented apartment
on a sunday afternoon, just awoken

i watch you move, bent over,
gathering the lucky pieces of your clothing
that will make it to the wash in this
one-dark one-light load sort of day
and i realize the moment that love waited, patient,
for me to own

i've spent the last two days with you
hour after hour spent directly by your side
and we just move through it without thought
of why we aren't ready to part yet
we just keep our hips close on couches
and our hands on thighs or other hands
tracing back and forth the journey
of every vain and every digit

but, to bring this to an end
and to the point i lie here slightly smiling
as i contemplate:

i feel like once you reach a year it is assumed
in the general consensus, in between the both of us,
that we love each other. the end.
it is no longer new, it is known we'll be together
for as long as the other will stand,
and the novelty seems to tire.

but here, on this idle 18th of some month of a year,
i watch you pick up laundry in boxers
that only get use at the end of clean clothes
with the t-shirt you wore yesterday - hair dripping

and i know your hair smells of coconut conditioner
bought last week and already familiar to me,
and your sides will smell of Old Spice,
and your eyes will hide a blue within the green
when you glance up as you empty the trash
to make sure i haven't somehow vanished from your bed
since a minute ago when you glanced last

and i think that maybe the beauty between us
is not that we love each other,
as two can do even when they aren't right,
but that i really like you.
after reaching this place where i know more than anyone
about your thoughts unspoken, your ticks, your movements,
i like the way you speak
the slow drawl that is less than apparent but underneath your words
the different little laughs you do, the way you work on anything
in a way that makes your hands seem too big for the job
and the clumsy moments that are countless throughout a day.
i like your hopeless forgetfulness
and how you are so easily distracted while you drive
and i like the way you look at me
when i ask you a question while you have a mouthful of mouthwash.

i like these things and so many more
that as i lie here thinking about the multitude
i think that maybe this is what being in love is, after all.
a forever feeling that can sit dormant
while the papers are written and the friends are met with
because eventually, we will come to this bed and end together
a 72-hour span
in which we never tired of each other
not once.

(jb)