it appears egon schiele loves women as much as i do.
but he could never properly convey the curvature of your hips,
the pink pout of your lips.
he draws so carefree, so whimsical,
but instead, to me, you would be composed of gradual curves,
down to your shins, the bounce of your hair, the flutter of your eyelashes.
your adorable smile, the way your mouth curls,
as though you’re about to speak, but you never say a thing.
my favorite thing about you: you never say a thing.
i can’t help but think that when my head is turned,
you admire me as profoundly as i admire you,
and we slowly become acquainted to shine and movement of each other’s hair.
i like to admire you in action:
your concentration over a textbook,
your animated face caught in conversation.
you told me your favorite book was The Great Gatsby.
but for you i want to weave a new story:
i am Daisy and you be Jordan.
and we do not swing precariously on a weak friendship,
but instead i take Tom’s place, and i won’t leave,
and you can be my Gatsby.
i can clink my glass of bourbon to yours,
cigarette in hand, and we can lounge together in our white dresses,
my bottom lip on your upper lip.