Close to You

I know you.

I sit at the back of the class, my chin perched on my fists and drink in your every move.

I memorize your profile. Etched in my mind is your Roman nose and your wispy eyelashes blinking against the sunlight.

I marvel at the even distribution of golden hair on your perfectly proportioned legs and how your shoulder blades and spine stretch your white Vuarnet T-shirt.

I envy the lock of wavy hair that cradles your left ear, knowing its smoothness.

Are you nervous? You have a habit of tapping your feet and chewing on a blue PaperMate pen.

I wish I were that pen.

How could you not feel my eyes travel you? An itch on your elbow could be the result of my unswerving gaze.

I relish the two hours we occupy the same space, share the same air.

If you knew all the things I do to be close to you, could you turn your back on me then?

Sometimes I imagine driving to your house, hoisting my portable radio on the hood of the car and singing along with Karen Carpenter to “Close to You.”

Sometimes at night, I drive by your house and my eyes rummage the darkness for a glimpse of life – of you.

Can’t you hear the low rumble of the engine outside your window? Why won’t you come and see me waiting for you in the darkness? Why must I always drive away feeling as blank as the windows that stare back at me?

You don’t know me.