why we don't hang out

you know in the movies when someone says "you make me nervous"
and the romantic interest is totally enamored with them?
like, they make you nervous - and that's a good thing?
well, that's my cue to leave -
when a flame sparks my nerves i throw water on it;
back off, far, far away
where you can't find me.
probably my bed. you'd know, you were there.
i'm a rockstar in my head
and we can't talk without flirting.

i don't wanna look over and see you watching me.
don't wanna sit on my hands
while i watch your smooth fingers shift gears
in your truck
parked at the bottom of my hill.
you didn't want an audience
and i just wanted to trace
your lips with my fingers
clutching at my booty shorts,
staring a hole through the monopoly board
far from your candy eyes.

the eyes that were trained on him
when you knocked over that trash can
in that closet of a classroom
where you said i didn't seem gay.
we had the same class,
mine later than yours.
i knew where you sat, rubbed the desk
where your big fingers were,
played along like i didn't want you.
and now it's over,
all i have to show for it is one lousy phone call;
one oh-my-god-there-he-is in a cafe.

you asked me why we don't hang out
and this is why
i'm scared of the past,
anxious for the future,
but mostly
nervous about the present.