Blackbird Song (8) Jenna says...

[Three weeks after the night that never happened]



I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.

We're at a party together. I hear you telling one of our stories, and it makes me smile. You look over at me, raising one eyebrow, your way of asking if I'm okay, and I nod back.

When your hand grazes mine and it feels like an electric shock, I tell myself that it's accidental, while hoping against hope that it wasn't.

I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.
I don't.

We end up staying the night with a few of your friends, we've both achieved that state of near perfect drunkenness, where everything is wonderful, and the world is colored with a haze of alcohol that makes everything seem fantastic.

Or maybe it's not the alcohol that makes everything feel that way.

You hug me, and if your hand lingers a little longer than usual, I don't think about it. Or at least, I tell myself that I'm not thinking about it.

I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.
I won't.

We end up sharing a bed. We both laugh about it, while taking off our shoes and if we lay a little bit too close, it's just because it's cold. Yes, it's cold, that's why we end up laying too close, and sharing a pillow.

When your hand finds mine in the dark, I try to hide my smile, even though you can't see me. I try to hide my smile from me, because it's cold, and maybe your hands are cold. It doesn't mean anything.

I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.
But I want to.

Tonight, when we're sitting in your truck, laughing, I tell myself that you're a good friend. You care about me, as a friend. You look at me like a friend.

It's hard to swallow down what I'm feeling, but if I turn the volume up on the radio a little, it helps me remember that word. Friend.

I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.
But it's getting harder.

You only see what your eyes tell you. You think that you're ordinary. But I see everything else, and there is nothing ordinary about you. You shine with such brilliance, that sometimes when I look at you, I feel like my eyes can't handle it. If I could make my mouth say something worthy of who you are, I'd tell you that.

I'm not as broken as you think I am.

I'll do it -- I can't -- I shouldn't.

And then I do it anyway. I tell myself that I'll pretend to be sorry afterwards.

If I have to.


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