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Zack Moy
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Poetry2 min read

The first words I said to you were “Excuse me.”
I needed something to say so I pretended I was in your personal space.
You said “sorry” as though you knew everything.

We just met.

But I marveled at your ability to make Hipster beautiful.
And having freckles to whom
I’d willingly lose a staring contest just so I could call a rematch.
They are torture to look at, but I hope
to the moon they go
down to your shoulders.

You tied up your hair in a messy red bun,
wearing an ironed top and exposing tattoos,
and I thought, oh my. I’ve found my badass Amy Adams.

We just met.

So I think about taking you to dinner.
That place in the Mission with the seasonal menu.
I’ll stumble over my stature and start with “Let’s not talk about work.”

Appetizers and pizzas, wines and tequilas — we stuff ourselves
with the stories of the life we deem shareable.
A hearty “cheers,” glass clinking and drinking too much.
listening through my laughter but still thinking as such I mean,

We just met.

And yet I wonder what opens your grace.
Who you wanted to be when you grew up,
Why you smile with a secret.
Or how your face looked as you shook
that first present on Christmas morning.

You tell me how you studied both sides of your brain in school,
in the lab under lasers
in the library under papers
but there was no method, you stress,
no “capital T” Truth about your love for music.

We’ll drink until you have a bad British accent. Then you’ll sneeze.
I hope you’re not allergic to infatuation. You sneeze again.
Women like you fix me but break something else.
You water my muse and shine all by yourself.

We just met.

This falling in love without trying is a simple science.
I’m an orphan of romance whose morning song is silence
I am no good with words when women want to hear them
So when we say goodbye, I speak not and see only one color flash —
Violet flesh sweating between sheets as you whisper
my love is only as good as my lover.

I’ve never met someone before who is actually dripping gorgeous.

If you get the flu, I’d let you give it to me.
I’d place you in my poems in ways only you could realize.
And when we wake up tomorrow under
the extravagant fort we built out of nothing but extra sheets,
the pillows from your room,
and your overturned IKEA couch,
I’d cross off an item on a bucket list I didn’t even know existed.

We just met.

I barely know you.
And all I’ve ever said to you was “Excuse me”
I needed something to say
So I pretended I was in your personal space.
You said “sorry” as though you knew everything I wanted to say.

And for once in my life, turning toward me,
You smiled back.

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