I know your name.
I whisper it to myself while falling asleep.

I’ve seen you walk to school.
I walk the route myself for the pure elation of stepping where you’ve stepped.

I know your address by heart.
I’ve written countless unmailed letters to the boy I love.

I know your phone number by heart.
I’ve run my fingers over the numbers without pressing the buttons so many times that sometimes I call you in my dreams.

I know your shoe size: 11. Favorite color: Poinsettia Red. You don’t call it Poinsettia Red, that’s too girly, but it’s Poinsettia Red.

You put your left shoe on first. Always. Never your right. You tie them the way I do, two bunny ears.

Pictures of you are plastered all over the pages of a notebook of mine that I guard with my life.

You love green Post-Its. You say “no one gets it”. I do, I get it!

I know you. You don’t even know my name.

You don’t care. How could you care for someone you don’t know?

And even if you could, you wouldn’t. No one likes a stalker.

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