You asked tonight if I hate you.

I still do not know if you were kidding.

You kid a lot.

We both do.

But you especially.

I was surprised.

I asked what made you ask.

You shrugged.

Something about a bad vibe.

Something about earlier.

Something about my eyes.

I combed through my memory.

I had purposefully avoided you,

So that I did not have to watch

you and her together.

But you must have been paying

very close attention to have

picked up on a vibe from that.

And when I did see you,

we talked and we bickered playfully

in soft flirting tones

like always.

Something about my eyes.

I told you that no, I do not hate you.

But there was a lot that I didn’t tell you.

Because of course I don’t hate you,

I couldn’t.

There are other things I hate.

I hate that she steals you away.

I hate that even with her boyfriend

only a couple of hours away,

she is pursuing you, worming her way

into conversations, cutting me out of

your circle.

I hate that I was identified as a threat,

I hate that this means she pounces

every time you come my way.

I hate that she feels she has a claim over you.

I hate that you’re too good to tell her

to get lost.

I hate my pride.

I hate my stubborn pride.

This proud wall I have up.

I hate that I will choose my pride

over you

over anyone

every time.

I hate that I can’t just tell you

that I’m fairly certain I’ve been

in love with you

since the first second I saw you.

My friends ask,

how hard could it be?

Just say it.

But my pride,

remember?

So I settle for a

no, of course I don’t hate you.

I ask if you hate me.

You laugh. No. Not even close.

Good.

I let my eyes linger.

Yours do the same.

Something about my eyes,

wasn’t that what you said?