I didn’t think I could win you then I thought it and the possibility set on me like skin on hot milk, blancmange, a layer of Brie or thick gravy.
And it didn’t seem difficult, and at once impossible, and I thought how every TV show was preparation, the underdog, and every film in which the friend gets the girl at the end, was my impetus, the prophecy to fulfil.
None of my strategies were winning and you still ignored me in the halls or when I dropped by your house and your boyfriend was there and your eyes were apologetic, that gesture was all I needed to pursue you even when you weren’t technically up for pursual, even though you’re not.
If we were famous I’d write fan fiction about us, fleshing out moments we do have, implying what’s obvious in my head, not yours. If we just kissed I’d convince you. But I’m a steam engine. I’m dial up. I’m first wife when you’re ready for third. I’m Amiga.