“I do kinda like you, just a little bit,” I said,
I’d been holding it in for weeks,
every time you’d text,
every time I thought about sitting in your lap on your skateboard, watching the sun set and people dance on waves,
every time a kiss caused you to say, “Wow, that was intense.”
You know, the kind of kiss that makes tears threaten to fall.
That’s the kind of intensity I crave.
I feared you wouldn’t say anything,
I feared you wouldn’t feel the same,
but not saying it was no longer an option,
like I was willingly letting fear into your bed,
in between us.
But there was only room for two.
So I said it:
“I do kinda like you.”
I couldn’t keep it in anymore.
“Oh yea? Just a little bit?”
A contradictory explosion of both fear and calm within.
“Well, I do kinda like you too…just a little bit.”
“It’s not obvious?”
I glanced away, shyness blending into satisfaction,
and then I kissed you and stared into your eyes,
welcoming me in.
The softness of your white sheets,
the way the 2pm sunlight peeped through your bedroom window,
the warmth of your skin,
the way the right side of your mouth curls upward when you smirk,
how you held me, quietly, securely—
it was all so intoxicating.
And I don’t take it back.
I still want you.
Even if now you’ve pulled away,
Even if you’re scared,
Even if you said you don’t want this, you’re not ready.
I do, and I’ll say it again:
I do kinda like you.