The problem is

As I sit here,
listening to the cars
dance their way across
the highway.

I think of you.

and the problem is not
the thinking, but all
the feelings that come
along with it.

I still can't understand
how come the whole
world isn't in love with you.

don't they notice?
that smile?, that soft hair
that always smells like
a strawberry night
and looks more like a
glitter field.

you're so beautiful,
so beautiful it grabs my
heart by its sides and
squeezes it, till it becomes
a guitar shaped waist
playing a heartbeat song
on its strings.

and I do want to snap
out of it, I want to forget
you like I forget about bad
grades, like I forget about
cleaning, sleeping, and
turning in an essay.

but the problem is,
my love for you is not
something I have to speak
about..

its something you can take
from my eyes, something that
is written on the corners of my lips.

something that jumps from
the tip of my nose, to the
end of my blouse.

and it does hurt,
because you're forbidden fruit.

because its sin, because
its not okay, because I
shouldn't feel this way

because our hands were
meant to carry children, to
cook, to design, to create,
to nurture, to give and to take.

but never to lock
with one another,
never to become love,
or become a place to keep it.

our hands aren't supposed
to meet for something other
than handshakes,
people would be entertained..
if we ever used them to mark
each others faces,
or close them, and
plant them in each others backs.

our hands, weren't made
for this. to create this
warmth I lose myself in.

the problem is, they're rebels,
like us. and never do
what is expected of them.