x. Van

x. I wish telling you your
nervousness was beautiful
was enough.
x. You're gonna be alright. You're gonna be alright.
x. And I would have listened to you,
and tied a million red strings around your
wrist, if you'd thought of me when you sped up
the guitar.
x. I told you it sounded good when the guitar sped up
at the end, didn't I?
x. And you told me it wasn't supposed to be like that, but you got nervous.
x. I don't want you to be sixteen. I don't want you to live in another state and have a million skinnier, prettier girls to talk to.
x. And you didn't talk to me, but
I was sitting next to you.
x. And I gave you my red string,
and I tied it around your wrist.
x. And you tied your red string
around mine.
x. You were the reason I stayed at the campfire.
I would have gone inside and sat alone in my room,
wishing for more ringing phones and guitar picks
and chocolate.
x. I would have never heard your song again. But I would have wanted to.
x. But you're sixteen, and you're an impossibly good guitar player, and I'm never going to see you again.
x. And
your nervousness is
beautiful,
Van.