and the weather is perfect outside where skin would be just enough.
i want to romp the world with you, naked as the day we were born,
feeling like with you it really is the first day of my life.
we will roll in the grass, and of course you are allergic to everything in nature
don’t worry, darling.
i will soothe your burning, blistering skin with butterfly kisses.
we will skinny dip, even though neither of us are particularly skinny
(we have your favorite chinese mexican takeout place to thank for that)
and i will slap your **** in the semi-darkness, giggling.
watching the sun go down, I will forget what anything feels like on my skin
other than your breath and hands

you make my tongue want to do cartwheels in a mouth
who's already taken such a beating from your teeth, it’s almost unfair
(so cruel, so kind, to bruised lips)
(would you save a little loving for hungry hips)
that tongue can be so uptight, sometimes.
the only thing that can loosen her is liquor, love -
(sweet, sharp, a little too much - who does that remind you of?)
spills from a clumsy heart -
i imagine it soothing the flames of burning bridges
and leaving them to rest in ash.
Let the ghosts roam where they may -
leave it be, my lion
you have me
and my
reckless

you said you only felt alive that time you almost fell off the Eiffel Tower.
some days I wished you did just so the suspended image in my head would fit –
eyes wide, lips parted, fingers splayed, every part of you split open head to toe,
spilling secrets into grey Paris wind,
settling like ***** snow on rooftops where I
play guitar and sing and pretend
that somewhere we are fingerpainting naked
and learning how to surf on beaches in Santa Dominica,
climbing trees and ripping jeans and loving

this is a poem about love,

             not boys, for once, or lesbians –
                           but roomie love.

my roommate is my other half,
like when we were little and chewed halves of gummy bears to make two-flavored ones with different colored heads and feet.

3:30 am on a Monday night,
all of our classes the next day, no homework done –
who else will stay up with me to read over each other’s oldest emails,
all disgustingly useless,
all marked as “sent with high importance”

who else will write poetry with me in the looming shadow of Chemistry tests
help keep the Spring terms exams and US History APs at bay
with jokes that aren’t funny but I laugh at anyways
because you are stupid and you think they are –

and everybody in the dorm thinks
we are insane, but that’s okay with me because we have

enough inside jokes to live on for a year
and  
                    each other

blowing bubbles through a straw
                            into my chocolate milk, satisfying pops

and suddenly I am homesick, I miss
my mother telling me to

             stop.

I bounce a volleyball as I walk to my dorm
just to hear that delightful sound, that satisfying, clean thud off the cement.

look up, see you in that grey hoodie that gives me bad dreams
and curse under my breath, eyes darting like a cornered fox,
            there is nowhere to hide.
we almost exchange eye contact, I almost taste blood in my mouth
            I hate how familiar you are.
you look down, cough;
I murmur a dusty hello-goodbye into the ground, hold my volleyball tighter
against my chest –
and hurry on, court sneakers straining on the pavement, trying too hard to forget your cracked smiles.

--

I remember how we used to pass for hours
no sound but the volleyball slapping against our forearms,
brushing off our fingertips,
echoing through that Choate gymnasium, that cold spring;

My head had barely reached the middle of the net,
but you were tall and brave and handsome, my Prince Charming, and
I was a freshman girl with her heart on her sleeve, who
hugged a warm volleyball to her heart and smiled,

thinking herself lucky.

--

Spring thawed your heart, eventually,
and you let me hold your hand;
you had long fingers, cold to the touch.
you taught me how to set, complimented my hands,
trained me to cradle the ball with my thumbs like it was made of glass,
your hands around mine.

I was braver than you were,
because everything felt fresh and exciting to me, like the
smell of crushed pine needles in the air;
you kissed me (I kissed you?) on that night
and I leaned forward, curious and eager, and wrapped my arms
around your neck.

--

The days melted into one another,
and we became
like chalk drawings blurring after rain,
like floor burns from sliding to save a falling ball –
but missing it, all the effort gone to waste;
the burns will still burn and still scar, for nothing.

May to June, June to July,
I hugged you and laughed, but my eyes
were cold; you said I love you
And I tried to say it back, but I couldn’t without
sticking a used to before the love –
            the honey words stuck in my throat.

Our kisses were routine, stale
like the crackers I left out the night before;
I tapped my foot and
tossed the volleyball quickly behind my back with nimble fingers
and counted the seconds before it was acceptable to pull back;
I had homework and volleyball practice and quizzes to study for, you know – I tried to smile but
it felt so wrong, I stopped –
you asked what was wrong, I shook my head, there are no answers for some questions.

--

It’s been four years since we’ve spoken,
shared secret moments under solemn oak trees, behind library bookshelves
that promised to keep us away from prying eyes,
smiled into each other’s lips,
blinked stories into each other’s eyes.
It’s been four years since people have teased you for not
hitting the ball when we passed – you gentleman, you –

I will not say I miss you, because I refuse to lie for your sake;
but sometimes as I set a ball perfectly to a hitter
I think of you for a split second, wonder where you are and if you remember as much
as I do, which is, honestly
not very much.

--

she writes letters to him and then burns them all, the smell of smoke fills the room.
It’s as if she is stealing the fury of the sun, which is cooling down, melting into lava at the horizon –
it will be another cold winter, there is already frost in the grass, the air smells chilly.

Dear you,

I broke up with you as nicely as I could –
there was no reason I fell out of love, the same way
there is no reason people fall in love.

you have no right ******* me out on the internet the way you did.
Every time I hit a volleyball I imagine your face on my palm, and I hit harder.
I will never forgive you for the things you wrote,
and I don’t know if I ever loved you at all,
because you are despicable.

Goodbye,
the girl of your dreams.

--

it’s the beginning of the end of July, everything is so hot.
the pavement is baking, the volleyballs are flat,
her arms feel weak and limp like overcooked noodles.

it’s hard to think straight. She can hardly remember
her own name before remembering that she has a boyfriend.
He calls, he says I love you and she tries to choke out that well-rehearsed lie –
what was it again? something like I love you too?

But it’s too hot, and she
can’t do it anymore –

she swallows hard and grips her volleyball tighter,
her hands sweating against the weathered sphere that has been through so much with her
as she prepares to say goodbye.

October air is cold in my throat,
and it smells like clean laundry, Momma’s apron, pinecones, summer rain
I make wishes on falling leaves on the way home from school, and
never step on the red ones [they were princesses in other lives]
                  Let dinner be good.
                  Let Momma have had a good day at work.
                  Let me have a big brother.
                  Let there be peanut-butter banana crackers on the table.
I kick acorns into a pile at the front door for the squirrels and deer and rabbits;
pull at the straps on my backpack because the driveway feels safe under my sneakers, and
kick a pile of leaves up
                                                             ­    up
                                                up
           ­                                                      up
                                                up
                                                         ­        into the pumpkin-picking-blue autumn sky,

let them scatter and fall in my hair;
The leaves are my crown, and I am Queen of red-orange-yellow.

falling in love with you was kind of like

putting on ice skates for the first time

even before I stepped on the ice, there was
all this tension coiling up in my stomach like a nesting cobra

there’s this momentary joy when put my foot into the rink
the unity, the coolness,
for a second I feel graceful, I feel poised
for a fleeting moment I am beautiful

I gain in confidence and I am gliding like I’ve been doing this my whole life (which I haven’t)
or at least pretending as though I know what I’m doing.

I leap in the air, like a black&white; photograph
I am suspended, a trapeze artist swinging through space
Time has stopped and there is nothing
but the beating of my heart,
and I laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

but there’s always that moment
inevitable, inexorable
as gravity sends me crashing to my knees, wincing

each time, it gets a little harder to put the skates back on

and try again.

glowing waters, tranquil as though the ocean were holding its breath
and yet breathing in and out, in and out
rhythmic, an inexorable drum

an explosion of ripples as I drop the kayak in,
the disturbances swallowed by marsh grass, waving in protest
murmuring to be still, stay still.

I shift in my seat, heartbeat in my ears, loud breathing
scared of being swallowed, lost to depths where darkness clung –
yet hardly imaginable in this world of dripping sunlight.

dip the paddle in, tasting the waters
right, left, right, left
cautious, careful, clumsy at first
splashes of droplets as I pick up the pace,
salt on my tongue, tasting the burn.

the pull and tug of muscle against the world, a silent war
the ocean protesting futilely, but  
surrendering to the kayak with a creaking moan

as I shoot through the water like an arrow, splitting the curling, white-crested sea.

the wind picks at my braid and throws it to the past with a lingering sigh
my paddles cutting through that glossy mirror of cloud and sunshine
shards of brilliantly stained glass.

bottomless
means one thing, and
*******
means another.

life is not easy to describe
it's not clean-cut, simple -
kurk, lerp, vort.

It has plerbacusaling turns, and wild zarbetroken trails
misleading and confusing and grumpling things, you know.

it's more like
yarpeluztyakopordowakenadle
or something
like that.

it's the best feeling in the world, really

                  shotgun in your car, the faint smell of cigarettes and air conditioning,
  flying down this lonely highway

  sticky soda residue and empty Coke bottles in the cup holders,
                  seat reclined as far back as it can go

  the neon signs, the moon, white stripes on the road, all
                 blurring into darkness,
                            my eyes closing in the heavy air



    drive me to sleep tonight, dear
          because there's nowhere else I'd rather be

he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young

he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and ****, as if he could calculate Life

strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world

not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and

realness

of the hug that
makes them so

great.

if you cannot        t  a  s  t  e        poems
or take the time to lick their wrappers


you are
     wasting
            your
                          t    i    m    e

you play me like
a 1963 Gibson f-hole guitar, mint condition:

you know exactly where to hold and press and play
moving your fingers with such talent it takes my breath away.

so tune me to your heart’s desire,
because I like it best when you’re pulling the strings

he speaks like a poem,
asking me if the train is going forward
or if the tracks are going backward

and
i'd never tell him, but
i'd walk on backwards train tracks forever and a day

if he was holding my hand

the air tastes fresh
like
ripe strawberries, and clean things, laundry detergent
fresh-squeezed lemonade, sun-warmed swings

soft, so still,
the world so sleepy

feeling like if you screamed, houses would
shatter

running down the driveway just to feel the wind in your hair,
your shadow sprinting after you, calling, panting, "wait up!"

and you have never

felt
more

*alive

the feeling
of driving by houses you used to live in, Christmas lights shining (something we never did),

and knowing that
strangers
are
                       using your bathrooms, laughing and having Labor Days' and lazy Sunday afternoons and making memories and disastrous apples pies,


and for a moment you kind of hope
      they have a lot of trouble with the leaky pipes on the 2nd floor

he said i could make him laugh only when i caught him off his guard;

and i guess it's kind of weird i never got jealous when he said he missed his pleasantly-plump [(fat)] red-headed [(ginger)] girlfriend who was pretty in her own way;

                                           [(ugly)]

and i can't even believe i still remember the times we shared, eating cold pizza and drinking warm soda

              you always wanted it the other way around but life's not that easy, darling, trust me.

I never got a chance to tell you

                     but I was in love with your handwriting
                                          almost as much as I was in love with you;

so elegant and exquisite and refined and Beautiful

and now
you'll never know
                                         that my g's and y's are a little more curly at the ends



because of you.

he was the kind of beautiful he would never admit to himself or to anyone else, the kind nobody else would ever mention to him in passing. you wouldn't really notice it, either, but you kind of knew it too, deep inside where you kept your most precious secrets, and you would only know anyways if you took the time to look into his face and study those eyes, and oh! oh, those creases by the side of his mouth because he was always, always laughing, even when he was mad he was laughing, like he was born into this world to be happy, born to be so much freakin’ happier than everybody else that for a second, you want something, you want what he has, but you don’t really know what it is.

and he has brown eyes, most definitely brown eyes, except they're so much more than just brown eyes it feels wrong to say just ‘brown’. a bajillion gajillion people have brown eyes, but his, they hold so much and they mean so much more- they're empty and they're deep and they hold so much promise, like a locked diary that you once had the keys to but lost so much years ago you can’t even count them on your fingers, and she can see so many colors in them- purple, golden-blue-ish colors with pink tints like the sky before a sunrise which aren't very manly colors, so you keep your mouth shut.

he was that kind of beautiful. the kind with chestnut-brown hair, except darker than that, except not really chestnut- it was warmer than that, really, and darker than that too, like the kind of gooey-warm-piping-hot melting mess of a marshmallow over a fire, the kind that burns your fingertips and leaves black stains on your jeans but melts perfectly in your mouth, except marshmallows aren't brown by any stretch of the imagination, and that's the feeling you know no one else would understand- so you keep it to yourself.

and if she ever told anyone, they would think- "oh. another giggling girl going after the basketball ****." that’s all they would think, she could see it in their faces they were thinking that, but she doesn't say anything because what if she's wrong? what if they're thinking about how strange she looked, or what was for lunch, or how long chemistry homework will take them, so she swallows her words because she knows they don't know

that he's really his kind of beautiful, not that kind of beautiful that people say only when they're trying to say ugly in a kinder way, but really, truly, his own kind of beautiful,

and

now you know exactly what you want.

looking around me, 19 second stop at a red light and already the large, bearded man with the scar on his cheekbone is grumbling, scratching at his bushy mustache and drooping Yankees hat, so faded it could almost be a B for the red sox

there's a young woman, ***** blonde hair cascading down her back, almost gracefully; seemingly too small for the rumbling white pickup truck she sat in, scratched and almost a tint of blue from this angle; one hand at the wheel, one tickling the feet of a giggling newborn at her side, for a second i wondered who the father was-

and over there, a skinny Hispanic boy by the side of the road, walking with threadbare sandals flapping against the hard cement, there's a hopeless look in his eyes-

an old man with a 5-inch long grey beard, almost touching the steering wheel; he's either Asian or he's squinting into the sun, can't really tell from here- wrinkles lining his worn face

a strong-***** Japanese woman, hair in a tight bun driving a Ferrari

a red-haired bespectacled boy, pale as chalk, his face covered with freckles (or was it acne?); couldn't have been older than 17; he looked like a Robert or a Charles, definitely not a Samuel

in front of me, a red Chevy truck with a license plate LUVANN, i wonder if Ann is still with him- i crane my head upwards trying to see the man, all i can glimpse is a blue-and-white bandana-

i wonder who all these people are,
what are their hopes and dreams, do they like ******* jacks? banana splits?
where are they going?
who will miss them when they're gone, or will anyone-

then the light turns green and in a puff of smoke,
like a blur-

they're gone.

I'm so afraid you'll be the kind of guy to say "I love you" in the exact right way at the exact right time when the candles are fizzing in their own puddles, never glancing at that piece of tantalizingly soft pale skin right above my slightly sagging purple velvet dress, opening all the doors and paying for all our insanely expensive dinners at Olive Garden-

the kind of guy that will never keep me waiting for more than three minutes-

or say that no, you'd rather have cheese pizza because you secretly don't like pepperoni even though you know I love it, and I don't know what to say because

                    that's the kind of guy I've always wanted and it would be silly to think that I would love if once,
                    just once,
                                        you would be the kind of guy that forgot my birthday until the last minute and gave me his sock as a gift.

i'm just sitting here sippin' salt water
'cause the taste of tears reminds me of you

and the smell of crushed pine cones was so strong it made the whole world feel sharper, like glass

dull colored leaves crunched under our feet
                          I imagined them all to be Cinderellas who had been
                          just for a moment, colorful&bright;&perfect;

                                                    then I only stepped on rocks and you laughed at me and called me silly.

                                                    I loved it though, the way you threw your head back and put your hands on your knees, your eyes crinkled

your laugh echoed off the mountains it was so loud and
                                  happy it made me want to sing,

all the birds cried out in surprise and flew away over our heads
                          so many of them they covered the sky for a moment
                                                    just the downy blanket of soft crow's wings, the silence seemed so loud after that

                          you took my hand, it was so big it covered all of mine and I felt the calluses and strength of it until your hand was so warm I pulled away;

you looked sad so I twisted around you and took your other hand.

sometimes it's like trying to remember a long-forgotten dream,                                                     trying to remember these times;






other times I can hold a                                                     pine cone,
                                                                              an inky black crow feather,



                                                                              and I can hear your laugh still echoing in my head.

She'll hide her tears behind that picture-perfect mask of sunshine-smiles
                                  and she'll dance like an angel and talk to you like she loves you the moment she sees you
                 and she'll meet a man who falls in love with her dainty peals of laughter
                                                                    he calls her his princess.

but sometimes, when she closes her eyes and kisses him back as he clutches her body with *****
                                  gasping intents, she envies him because he can feel so much, and she feels like

                                                                    a beautiful, colorful shell
                                                   empty on the inside; ***** and brown and gross.

                 She wants to scream and run away in her bare feet
                                                   and feel the mud splash up those pale legs
                 wants to sing off-key and snort when she laughs
                                                   and trip over dresses and she wants to cry,


she knows it's crazy, but she wants to cry.

                                  She wants to meet a man who loves her for her
                 and not for that perfect facade she hides behind so skillfully;
                                  but she blames herself, and yet that mask is glued too tight



and she smiles a little wider because that's all she can think of doing when her heart feels like it's about to break.

Either I'm Alice,
or I've been kicked into Wonderland;

                  because I'm falling down in a never-ending hole
                                    and I'm drowning in a pool of my own tears.

                  I hope I'm Alice though.

Because then at least I'd know
                                    that I'll be okay, in the end.

Take my hand, friend
just for a sec-
let's leave this ****** land of
SATs, PSATs, APs,
and college admission essays and guidance counselors
and homework and pop quizzes and exams and whatever else-

                                          behind.

Let's be two again.

Let's make Pringle-chip-duck faces
and grin with orange peel smiles-
I'll paint my nails yellow and we'll read Dr. Seuss with British accents
in the dimming light of the old
falling-down fort of pillows and blankets (that's almost too small for us)

Let's pretend
              Let's pretend
                            Let's pretend

That we've never seen the glowing screen of
televisions, computers, IPods,
that we haven't spent weeks wearing down our thumbs on text messages.
              Let's forget fights over boys that weren't even all that hot.

Let's sit in my yard and eat raw cookie dough behind my momma's back
And make too-sweet fresh lemonade, and blow dandelions
(into other neighbor's yards, of course)
Spray garden hoses at each other
and laugh and scream and giggle and make mud-pies.
Let's make twenty different secret handshakes,
Eat wild raspberries and hide sticky fingers
And pinky promise- again and again- BFFs forever.

Let's lose ourselves in the bliss of childhood
just one more time- please.

                            Just in case Peter Pan decides to visit.

let's go back, you an me
dance with me, i'll twirl with the dust mop
and you'll laugh and pick dust out of my hair and say i'll never be old

let's go back, you an me
record me stealthily when i sing obscenely-loud songs in the shower
and play them over and over and over as i blush different shades of fire

let's go back, you an me
tickle me while i'm tryin' to play hopscotch
as i beg for mercy between gasps and giggles and threaten to wet my pants

let's go back, you an me
take me for never-ending piggy back rides, pretendin' i'm flyin'
then dump me on the dewy grass, make me laugh because you're laughing

let's go back, you an me
i'll push you in the fountain and you'll grin
and pull me in with you, we'll float on our backs
ignorin' the stares
and watch night fall in little pieces, here and here
except for in your eyes, which blind me

let's go back, you an me
paint sloppy, clumsy kisses on my cheeks
and make stupid looking necklaces out of sparkly plastic beads you know ill never wear

let's go back, you an me
whisper in my ear forever
so that now i can hear you in my head
and smile smiles that don't reach my eyes
and dance with the dust mop pretendin' that it's you

I wish that I had told you when you were here
that I loved the way you always brought home dinosaur chicken nuggets, never the regular ones
that I could get high off of the smell of your old T-shirts I sleep in when I'm scared.
And I stopped ordering scrambled eggs with ketchup and barbecue sauce from the local cafe;
What'd you say? Oh no, it's not because I'm sad, of course not,
I just miss you a little bit, is all
and I'm really sorry that i refused to wash the dishes last Tuesday, I'll never leave them in the sink
I'm sorry i got mad at you when you got the white basket and the colored basket mixed up (again);

I'll remind you the next time we do laundry, I promise.

Love,
Charlotte

p.s. I hope heaven is all its cracked up to be.

i want to be myself with you, honest

really.

but i'm afraid, so afraid
that you won't want me any more if

                  i sing silly songs that don't make sense and sound horrible
                  
                  and i giggle too loudly for no apparent reason

                  and i snore in my sleep

and i'm afraid that you won't love me more if i just relax

                  and my hair isn't brushed
                                    and my legs aren't exactly shaved
                                                      and my feet smell bad
                                                             ­           and i'm not wearing any makeup
                                                          ­                                and i'm wearing my pajamas with Bob the Builder on them that I've worn since fifth grade.
                                                          ­                              
so kiss me,
                  though my breath smells like the chicken pasta with broccoli and onions I had for dinner last night
                                    

                     ­               and tell me I'm beautiful.

It doesn't seem right that
the sunrise is beautiful
without you;

but it is.

******* a kiss, doll
And I'll lead the way;
I'll show you where all those mermaid lay,
give you a carriage of pumpkins and magic
name what you want, and there you shall have it;
I'll go and bow down to the Elven Kings,
and watch you with pride as he gives you a ring;
We'll talk to the sprites and flee from the ghosts,
Meet pretty princesses (I love you most)
We'll watch unicorns as they gallop and prance,
And when we see stars we'll just get up and dance,
Make several wishes from genies aplenty,
So many nymphs, at least fifteen or twenty
Will take us to dragons that are blowing blue fire,
And knights with bright swords (of which I'll admire)
We'll run to the place where the phoenix all meet,
See them slack-jawed as they sparkle with heat,
And then when it's time to finally sleep,
Please close your eyes and then kiss me so sweet,
And when we wake up in lands of metal machines,
I know we're not where there's ogres and queens,
But you're still my princess, and trust me my dear,
Somehow your kisses are sweeter right here.

People would ask
what is love?
And I would say
I love you;
that's what love is.

i tried to make this poem              look like a heart
  but i ran out of words, it        really doesn't, it kind of looks
   like someone took a good    lookin heart and kind of squashed
    it which is too bad because i really would've loved it if it
     looked like a heart, but i suppose that a squashed heart    
       isn't too bad, even if it's kind of funny looking, i think.

I have
a confession to make;
that I go to sleep every night
hoping you'll visit me
in my dreams
that I like smelling your hoodie
when you're not with me
just to make sure
you weren't a dream-
that blue punch-buggies make me laugh
and sour green apple Jolly Ranchers
make me smile
(by the way, my last two cavities
are all your fault)
I confess that I read over our conversations
so I can hear your voice,
and play  back every kiss
we've ever shared-
That I think of you
when I'm sad
when I'm excited
when I'm angry
when I'm happy
And oh,
before I forget,
I stole your flip-flops
the day before you left-
sorry
I was going to return them-
honest.
And by the way, I do confess
that I miss you
a rather lot.

The shruckling brook twists around
the underbrush, ferns, and green little brots
making it's clean path through
the wild turns of the otherwise
confriggalus jungle.
It chuckles and burbles and babbles,
And trammles and jackles and plurks,
on its very merry way
plarfling to itself,
smelling the strungent perfume
of the zurplagot flowers,
tasting the salty stebbles
tickling its feet.

She called him her cherry
because of his bright cheeks-
               and he called her his daylily
                              (she wasn't sure why,
               but she liked it)

               He was patient and protective
               and liked the way her socks never matched
                              and the way she ate muffins (upside-down)

                              She was impatient and prideful
                              but she liked the way he read (eyebrows furrowed furiously)
               and his squinting, laughing eyes.

They were always having small fights
and once she heard her pride say-
"I'll never talk to you again."
               she never thought his eyes could look so sad
               when he slowly nodded at her
she wanted to scream.

Her life continued as years passed
and she met a boy she grew to love
               but who never quite understood
               why she ate muffins the way she did.

One day, as she was packing
               preparing to move across the country
she found a dried, wilted daylily
               and she cried herself to sleep that night, hating herself
                              wondering if he ever felt the same of cherries.