By Stephen Boyd
She’s a peach
I think I love her.
No, I know I love her, and I know she loves me.
She is the perfect girl.
I met her at camp, a temporary setting, setting the scene for our love.
When I see her around, I can’t help but stare, because I know she’s rare, with a certain flare, I just can’t place.
Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t seem to care.
I wrote her a love letter, detailing my effective affection infecting my mind.
I gave her a proposition, a box to check, a yes or a no, and it must have been her insatiable infatuation with me that made her
After that, I saw her friends around, and they would point and laugh–they must have been commenting on how funny I was,
saying, “That’s her funny new boyfriend!”
She’s so nice that one night she gave me a candy, and I fell asleep early because I was so happy.
I gawk, and I revel in her beauty:
Her smooth lips move as she talks to her friend over our entire date about shoes,
Her confidence and relaxed posture as she declines to spend more time with me,
Her beautifully glistening eyes, as she watches her phone and doesn’t look up at me once,
Her vivacious vibrations rocking through her body as she inches away from me while we watch movies together.
She loves playing hard to get as she reads my messages without responding.
Over the phone, I’m addicted.
She could have picked any other guy, but she picked me.
Yes, she really is the perfect girl, and I’m so lucky to have her.