No. Final Answer.
A single sun, all else was orbit;
Spanish class was the back of his neck.
He'd have done me such a favor
To grab my wild arms, to make me toss the paintbrush,
the baton, the penning-it-even-now story
I wanted to write in his name's sake.
Had he held my hands, not in love,
but in earnestness, and said, "no,"
"no.... I don't"
I might not have believed in magic,
might not have insisted I could come back
from the next in a series of sad moments,
like the one, in my room, studying for pre-cal,
while we listened to the Smiths,
and drank Italian soda,
the back of my palm casual against his knee,
and how he picked it up, placed it back
in my lap, and mumbled, eyes on the page
"I can't concentrate with you touching me."
How hard to know then, what I still
don't know now, did he ever love me?
And how I still want to disguise that line,
to say it some other way--
Alguna vez me amas?
Que el nunca me amas?
What if I'd been brave enough to ask
yes or no, plain as this poem?
What if I'd been brave enough to listen
The sun, so silent in its sky.