I Don’t Really Know You


I don’t really know you, but I want to.

Yes, we’ve been included in many of the same social outings and we’ve had our own conversations. I know your name and that you have two sisters. I know that though you look predominately Italian, you are actually a mix of many nationalities. I know you are Catholic by default and not practicing. I know that you are funny and that you are kind, but I don’t know why you are these things. I don’t know what has shaped you, but I want to.

We’ve flirted while getting buzzed off of local (and delicious) craft beers, but you don’t really know me.  You know my name and that I am obsessed with my family. You know that I am nearly ten years younger than you and I think you know that makes me a little uneasy. You know that I am loud and that I love to laugh. You indirectly know that I want to settle down and have kids as soon as possible. You know that I am almost always smiling, but you don’t know what I try to hide with my smile. You don’t really know me, but I hope you want to.

I do know that I liked the way your hand felt on my lower back and I know that I felt incomplete when it wasn’t there. I liked the way that we positioned our bodies toward one another, the way that the attraction was apparent to everyone else. I know that when I had to correct the person who assumed we were together, I was proud of their assumption. I know you make me nervous. I’m scared of what you can make me feel, what I already feel. I’m terrified that the next time I see you this connection will seem like something I fabricated in my mind. I don’t know what this is or what this could be, but I want to.

I don’t really know you, but I want you.