Street

There was a boy who lived,

On my small and shaded street,

And every day I watched him,

Wondering when we would meet.

 

He walked by my house every day,

A sketchbook in his hand,

Always seeming casual,

And unplanned.

 

 

 

 

There is a girl who lives,

On the street I use to walk,

Sketching her inside a book,

Because I was too shy to talk.

 

When I heard we were moving,

I walked up to her red door,

And handed her the sketchbook saying,

“I can’t walk by your house anymore.”

 

The moving truck came,

And so did she,

Knocking on my plain brown door,

Handing me a stack of poetry.

 

While I sketched her blue eyes,

She wrote poetry about my brown,

That I have taped to my wall,

In this new town.

 

Her address was scribbled,

On the back of one,

Saying in cramped handwriting,

“I’ll miss you a ton.”

 

 

The boy who used to,

Live on my short street,

Wrote me a long letter,

“The girls here can’t compete.”

 

I replied to the address,

My handwriting slanting on the page,

While my heart beat fast,

Trying to escape my rib cage.

 

I know what love is,

And I smile at everyone I meet,

Because I am in love,

With the boy who used to live on my street.

 

 

 

The girl I drew pictures of,

Peeking through the window,

I love with all my heart,

I know.

 

She makes me laugh at words on paper,

And snort at pebbles in envelopes,

She speaks of flowers,

And old telescopes.

 

I’m almost old enough now,

To go back to that street,

Where the beautiful girl and I,

Had the chance to meet.

 

 

 

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