Does
anyone
else's
father
remind
them
of
Bill
Murray?
Weird.

You
are
such
an
*******.
I
am
more
than
****.

On my way home
from a wedding
the road was playing
tricks on me.
I couldn't tell if I was going
u
p
  h
   i
    l
     l
or just p l a t e a u i n g,
never really going
anywhere of any
particular importance.
It was so dark.
Miles from streetlights
and greenlights and any other kind
of lights, I turned my shoulder
to yield, but there was no
sign of another car
to make me slow down.
I rolled the windows
down and sang a song
to you at the top of my
lungs because I hate
the way I feel when you
grab my hand in your
passenger seat and
my stomach free-falls
because of your touch
and the fact that you
won't be my boyfriend.
It's a junior high title,
but humor me,
I didn't get enough
love in my childhood.

i can't tell if you
have green or blue
eyes or one blue eye
and one green eye
but i do know that
you make me want
to jump out of an airplane
with and for you.
and now it's 3 AM
and i can't sleep
because you're blue green
eyes burn a hole in my eyelids
when i close them.

You asked me what happened
well I think I talked too much.
I do that sometimes
where I just keep talking
and talking and talking and
talking and talking
about Old Hickory and
the mismatched sweaty guy
in the Beetle convertible.
You were thinking how
I had big eyes the whole time
I talked and talked
so you just said, "yeah, right?"
when you should have said
"Yeah, he's my favorite
president too."

I know there will be
a sweet, sweet girl
who wants to be a
good mother to
your children in the
near future, but
on the inside I
wouldn't be much
older than our
children in that
near and terrifying
future.
Go and find her,
meanwhile I know
there is a nervous,
handsome stranger
who enjoys old movies
and British literature
waiting for me,
and that is what is happening
now.

Fat, sweaty men
in ill-fitting suits
during the middle
of a scorching
Leo August
are the most
uncomfortable,
but not as
uncomfortable
as me when
in the presence
of a Leo who
makes me
sweat, but for
all the wrong
reasons.

It is 7:58 on August 6
and I am in love with
the world.
I tell myself this
because one day I
will feel like
the world has
left me
for someone else.
When that day comes
I'll have the poem
to remember him by.
Everything
is washed in
pink light
like some old
masterpiece.
"If I were an Impressionist..."
I muse, smugly
patting myself
on the back,
knowing I'll never
be able to
paint.
As I'm writing
it's fading into
some unchartered
purple, and
by the time I
finish, it'll probably
be dark,
but the sun
will be back up
tomorrow.