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I think I knew I liked you

when you convinced me that cities were beautiful.

I promised myself that

I’d never open my eyes to the beauty

of something so artificial, but you showed me

how lovely the skyline can look across the horizon.

I think I knew I liked you

when I woke up with aching abs leftover from the laughter

that had tumbled out of me

like water spilling from a fountain.

I knew I liked you

when after everyone had gone to sleep

your songs were still billowing into the air

from my old computer speakers, the view count

on your music videos having traveled from 73 to 90 since 2 am.

I knew I liked you

when my constantly wandering mind

picked up on every detail you shared

and hoarded them, because

the information that you collect two-dollar bills

or you are terrible at naming things

seems more important than anything else I know.

I knew I liked you

when I leaned into the cliches I had always sneered at,

and I started writing love poems about your smile,

the sappiness thick as honey, but

the words never failed to taste sweet in my mouth.

I knew

from the way I suddenly forgot

all the cheesy pickup lines I knew

when you asked me for some to send your crush.

I knew

because of the way the lyrics of your songs

tasted bitter in my mouth when I knew

they were written for somebody else.

I knew

from the way I wasn’t sad when

you gushed about them, because

I also knew that I couldn’t be anything but happy for you.

I think I knew I liked you.

I hope I know better now.