Time won’t tell for it has its own plans.
My heart started beating for you at 6 years old,
in a 2nd-grade class party.
I remember a coke bottle and a white cup.
The 2-litre coke bottle, too big for your tiny hands.
You pour coke into the white cup a little too less,
insisting enough when the fizz hit the cup’s brim.
Fizz dissipates and now the cup’s half full,
a classmate insists you pour her more.
You refuse, you two argue, back and forth,
she says more, you say no.
Next to you two, alone I sit in my chair,
biting into a chip as I watch.
I smile like a fool oh how funny you are
yet to others not funny at all.
Your persistence your insistence,
seep into my heart,
as humour and affection.
Quiet me, shy — introverted — awkward,
continues to watch
with a plate full of chips in my lap.
You don’t see me amidst this flurry.
At 6 years old, ignorant to greater world issues
we fill this small confined space, our classroom,
arguing over more snacks and drinks.
You knew me as a family friend,
a girl who lacked confidence.
The opposite of me you were, loud and obnoxious.
A class joker, consistently getting into trouble.
This moment, you won’t remember but I do.
This moment is when I felt my heart expand
for the first time.
As if filling a deflated balloon with air,
my heart went from nothing to infatuation.
At that time I didn’t know,
this moment would be my first step
on a journey toward a haze
in search of what will never be.
