I don’t have stage fright.
Maybe it’s because
my father was a singer,
so it somehow runs
in my veins
(Sometimes he shouts
“How Are You” through
the phone like I’m deaf)
but looking at you,
gosh,
that stare invites butterflies
to swarm into my stomach
like a field of meadows,
clogging up the hollow
spaces in my throat
that you may think
I’m mute when I try to say
Hi.
That’s a bummer,
because I have a lot of
wonderful things to compliment you on —
from your navy blue joggers
to your white sneakers
and
your messy bedhair,
my No. 1 favorite.

I didn’t remember what you
chomped on for breakfast,
but the headline of the day
keeps flipping in my head
like the way you read the
newspaper and turn each page.
I retweeted lots of articles
without even analysing them
before sleep, so I think
it may be a good start
to an intellectual conversation,
since you are in your school
debate team, and I,
let’s just say that I have
Instagram pictures for brains.
But as I tried to flood out
my words like a faucet,
those sheepish butterflies
built a dam,
lining up wing by wing
until all I could say was,
“Um, can I borrow your newspaper?”
Great.
That was the most interesting
dialogue that I could blurt out
that shut you up the whole afternoon.
I thank Mom for not joining you for
lunch, because I had a pleasant time poisoning
all those horrid butterflies on the way home
by licking an ice cream cone.

I don’t know whether you’re some kind of
a wizard that holds supernatural powers like Harry Potter, or you’re god-sent,
that even the fluffy clouds and the constellations
keep spelling your name day and night
and the moon reflects your face when it’s full
when it rains, the wind would calm me down
like the first time I saw your face,
and after the hectic chaos in my anatomy,

there are also rumors of you having a
mutual interest with one of the Xaviers.
I am still grateful,
because once and for all,
I had met you.

So tell me,
should we start all over again?