They say fairy tales aren't real.
But we don't need Peter when we've got a Neverland of our own.
Just you and me and the Patriots throw that someone tossed us
an insignificant number of minutes ago.
We sit shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed tight against each other
and feet awkwardly brushing on the chair we keep them propped up on.
But I don't mind awkward touches, because at least their touches at all.
You've stolen my phone, again,
and I play with your slender fingers as you use your bad hand
to try and decode my password, drawn in by the secrets I could have.
You use your bad hand, because your good hand and my good hand are playing.
We don't think much of it when my curled up figure gently leans onto you,
head finding its way against your shoulder.
Our hands linger together just a moment longer than an innocent accident would have allowed
and I pretend it doesn't give me butterflies to be nestled in so close to you.
Your deep voice whispers into the top of my head and I close my eyes,
longing to be here forever.
Because in these moments,
these insignificant number of minutes,
it doesn't matter that we're not in love, it doesn't matter that we could be.
In these moments we are in love,
even if only for these moments.
Even if when the bell tolls ten o'clock and your mother has come down,
offering me a ride home,
we're time warped back
from Neverland
to reality.
Just two friends,
wishing they were in love.

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