getting-there love

I have a feeling
inside, deep like
the kind of love
kept secret for years.
The kind of love
where just seeing
you walk by
feels like something
domestic.

I feel
something deep
toward you—
like love, but not.
I don’t love you,
it’d be too fast,
but I feel something
about you
that feels similar.
I feel something
like noon on
a Saturday
where I can picture
our hands intertwining
like the coiling body
of a snake,
not because we desire
warmth or the reassuring
weight of a living being,
but because nature
tells us so.
I feel for you
the moment before
an entire neighborhood
awakens—
where it seems
like a short pocket
of time when
the universe seems
to be still
like the unmoving trees
in the silent wind of that morning.
I feel for you
random bits of
information
you say
as you look away
in some wistful manner.
Like how you
flinch at the sight
of a big dog because
one dealt you an unfavorable
blow at a young, young age.
Or the nervousness
that sets in within
your veins—
an icy fear
that appears
when intent eyes are
focused on you.


I feel a feeling
inside, deep like
the kind of love
kept secret for years.
Like the kind of love,
the kind of not-love,
but getting there-love,
I feel for you.