Girl Crush-an essay

I have a girl crush, it’s big and fat and as high as the moon! She’s as high as the moon too, full moon bike rides and beautiful. Her hair is brown and her skin tans- bike riders tan, and her zig zag sandal feet delight me. She has a fire, a spark, a flame, a desire… and I have a cliché, but it’s true: She’s fierce in there. She once told me, “I think I would have made a better boy” and I think she’s lovely and I think she’d still be lovely… as a boy.
I was calm the last time we met, her and I. There was cider and cookies and I met some of her old friends. I wanted to sneak her away, all giggles, and ask her to tell me anything. She’d been gone on what I imagine to be a ride chased by autumn across the state, and her headband was pink riding back against the wind. Bemidji is her home she says, and I wonder why she’d settle for such a small thing when she’s so huge inside, at least, to me. But the town does grown on you, and she’s seen more than I have. I think her roots are much deeper than any I’ve ever had. I wonder how warm the soil gets down there, and if she would keep me warm too, if I stayed long enough to plant myself down.
But she disappeared while she was gone, unclouded my head and I realized I wouldn’t be in Bemidji long; two more years, maybe. I knew that any emotional manifestation would never leave my heart to reach her hands. It was quite the laugh of a though to bubble over my lips as I kissed my boyfriend, and vaguely I thought of her kissing hers. I wondered once if she would be my boyfriend. I wondered twice if she would let me take her out for milkshakes. Well, I lied, I thought about the milkshake one more than just twice. I wanted to sit her down across the booth, share her thoughts, have her laughing around her straw, tearing at her napkin. I bet she’d get vanilla… if they made it non diary, and non soy. No, no, I’d told myself then, I can’t ask her to go out, maybe I could ask her in? Now that I don’t have my own home that is. I was a renter, with a dining room table, and a bountiful kitchen—now loving in a cramped dormitory room—the community kitchen smells and has no windows. I could never ask her here, in with the smells and clutter. I feel cluttered! I have too many strings attached to each of my parts to try to give her my heart, my hand, much less a second glance… but I do! I do! I look, and I like and I smitten away.
I have no such right to be captivated! I am not her love, her light! I am just a girl still. Were I not, I would write about her mouth, or her eyes, or the way she breathes. I would love to write about even one of these things in accuracy. But, we are not close. I’m too panicked when I look in her eyes… I think they’re brown, but all I really know is my face is red—after all, maybe when she wears green, they pin prick hazel. Maybe they’re deep enough to blacken on grey nights when she’s sitting and sighing. I’ve never been close and quite enough to hear an individual breath—separate and resting. I’d like to sit with her, quiet and resting. Tonight however, none of the details come to me! For I know I’ve stared at her mouth but I’m certain I was not concentrating on aesthetics! Were her lips thin? I think so, but why can’t I be sure? I’m certain her boyfriend is sure… I’ll even bet her other friends know. I wish I were an other friend.
I want to pup this fizz, shake the can and release. Drop this pressure to the ground where I can laugh over it in later days. I doubt she cares my heart beast fast for her. I doubt she knows the drop in my stomach every time she winks at me—a habit I find so charming and undeniable that I wish I could pick it up. Or maybe she does know, because I get far too loud around her… or I backfire and become too shy. She’s just got this spice, like a strait cinnamon zing, and all I’ve got is a big fat girl crush.
I am a big fat girl crush, over the moon, head over heels, and she doesn’t even wear heels! But the secret I keep down in myself, out of even my heart, is that if I could quicken her pulse too, if she wanted each wink to hit me so hard, then I don’t know what I would do. I know we’re no perfect for each other, that we have different paths. I don’t know what she would ask of me, or if there’s anything I could even give her, but I would write her stories, and read her books. I’d learn to cook her favorites, and I’d listen to her music, make her listen to mine. I would jus love to exist with her from time to time, laying around just a little bit lazy… I would love to be her pillow.