Lo, movement like the film reel,
the palpitation     twisting. I saw you-
macropsic,         thrown up the walls, 
distorted. My body does not     do

what I think it should.

I find understanding in relation-
Quadraphonic         to your image.
Instead of going to class,
we push         power strip carts
from room to room,
armed with laminated hall passes,

and I do my
               best to try to fall in love with you.

The bus takes me home,
secret     stash of stolen library tapes
in my backpack. You don’t listen to cassettes,
something about         the richness of vinyl.
It’s strange to me, usually I’m the one living
with         one foot in the past.

At night         in my room,
my projector mind     hums         and shudders,
and I stare         at my Sally Ride poster
and try to imagine

being your nagging wife.

I’m not sure what my problem is-
I’ve never         met a more perfect boy.
You don’t try to talk to me about sports
only movies,        comic books,        music. 
Even though I’ve     watched     you
turn into a man,

I still         don’t believe it.

When we go to the drive-in,
and we do     go often,
I keep my eyes trained on the screen-
Never         at the cars beside us,
Never         at the couples inside them-

So I don’t have to wonder why
my stomach drops             when he
slides his hand up the back of her neck.
So I don’t have to ask why
you aren’t             touching me.
So I don’t have to ask why
I don’t want it.             Not         like that.