I didn’t know what to say when I first met you.

I got swallowed by your dark brown eyes,

completely and utterly consumed by how spunky and soulful they were.

I forgot how to breathe-

and how to speak.

The world went to static.

I figured that maybe getting drunk would help me swim,

and not drown in this mass of people, 

or at the very least help keep my head above the water.

Ironically that is what gave me the courage to walk up to you.

I had no plan-

no idea on what to do or say.

But in the time it took me to get to you all I had thought of was…

“I like your tutu.”

 

What I really meant to say was:

“I came over here so I could hear what your voice sounds like,

and to hear the melodic drum of your laugh.

I also want to see you smile

and so help me God I want to memorize 

the way your lips curl up when you do so.

I don’t know where you are going-

or where you have been-

or your favorite color-

or what makes your blood boil-

or what calms you down when life is too much.

I don’t know what you do with your spare time,

or your spare change,

or if you believe that tacos are a meal 

reserved specifically for Tuesdays.

I don’t know if you like this music-

the loud, continuous, pounding, bass thumps-

or even just being here,

engulfed by the mass of sweaty bodies.

I don’t know if you actually enjoy that beer in your hand,

or if you’re just drinking it 

to put a little liquid confidence in your system,

to help keep your head above the water line,

because maybe, just maybe,

you could be nervous to talk to me too.”

 

But then again…

why would a gorgeous boy,

with strawberry blonde hair,

and soulful brown eyes,

in a cobalt blue tutu

want to talk to me?