Lightning Bugs

[tallonrk1]

Lightning Bugs

You tell him that you like his sweatshirt,
the pale-gold one
that reminds you of lightning bugs
in Summer-time. Those more inviting colors,

the ones you want wrapped
around your body until you fall asleep.

And he gives you the quietest
thanks,
without looking at you—
brown eyes
still fixed on the elevator door.

Later, you think
maybe he didn’t say thanks,
maybe he just sighed
as a parent would
to an annoying child asking for more attention.

Nothing more is said—
nothing more ever needs to be said
because understanding what is said
and what is meant
are two different things,

and he understood what you meant,
and you understood what he meant,

so when you see the way he looks at the girl across from him at dinner,

laughs with her
in a way that your unfunny nature could never conjure,

you know what is meant. And when you look at his
pale-gold sweatshirt, half-hoping his arms would
unravel from his body and hold your chest against his,
squeezing as if he could push out all of your anxiety,
as if he could push himself through you,

he knows what is meant, and you both know
that nothing will be said.