When I first met you, I imagined you in black underwear.
We were Freshmen, we had common friends, and you were all talking about clothes. And underwear.
I was introduced to your group. "All poets," my friend said. The idea of poetry and lingerie quickly got me excited. You said your name and gave a little wave, then you went right back into your rousing discussions. You laughed, and it sounded so familiar. Your eyes twinkled in the afternoon light.
I had a crush on you right away.
A few weeks later, we met again. A bunch of friends were supposed to go to Club Dredd (in Timog, I'm so old!) to catch a poetry reading. Everyone backed out, and there were two.
Fate doth conspire!
We took a cab, had a great night, and fell in love—oh, if that were true. In fact, the opposite happened.
That night, while sipping San Miguel and popping calamares, I looked at you in the middle of this dark, cool room, in the middle of all these strange artists and musicians, and I realized that you were out of my league. You were a real poet and you knew where you were going.
In your presence, I truly felt like a Freshman.
Luckily, I had three more years to be in the same world as you.
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