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They never tell you it’ll be that easy
a warm, sticky August night, 76 degrees in your best friend’s back yard
and that you’ll be goofing around in a swimming pool, shirtless
when you find the girl of your dreams standing beside you,
watching from dry ground.

They never tell you she’ll be that beautiful,
that she’ll be able to rock a salmon Lion King sweatshirt
or that she’ll be a bombshell in light turquoise-ish;
that her beautiful blonde hair will flow like a waterfall of champagne, or that her eyes
will be crystal-clear dream pools, mirrors of the soul.

They never tell you that you’ll fall in love,
that every time you see her, your soul feel more complete,
and that every time you leave her, that part of your soul will be siphoned away;
that she’ll come to be the composer of your dreams, and letting her down
will be the composition of your nightmares.

They never tell you it’ll be a rainy Thursday night at O’Dwyer retreat house, 11pm,
when you will pour your soul into a poem just to impress her
that you’ll slave and sigh over every last mitsake because you want
to make her exhibit the same passionate love and pride that you exhibit about her,

Because they never tell you it’ll be that hard.